


Photograph

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blind Foggy, Bodyswap, Gen, Sighted Matt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Foggy closed his eyes, and, with more feeling this time, opened them again. Same result.The world refused to appear. It was simply... blackness. Nothingness? Not even the dream knew where it was going, apparently. The dream, that he was definitely in, because whatever was happening, definitely wasn't."Matt and Foggy wake up in the wrong beds -- and the wrong bodies -- after startlingly normal night out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: I'm not a writer, I've never written fic before. This is just something self indulgent and mindless I've been picking at for something to do for a week or so, and thought I'd put somewhere. More if I write more?
> 
> Enjoy!

The dart whizzed through the air, slicing the room's atmosphere as it landed, near dead centre. Bullseye. Foggy lowered the glass bottle from his mouth, lips still parted, eyebrow raised. He looked from the dartboard to Matt, who was thumbing the second dart into his right hand, head tilted to the wall.

“That sounded like a hit?” he said, with the smallest of grins. Foggy made the biggest display of rolling his eyes. He hoped Matt had noticed.

Whether or not he could, was something Foggy was still trying to work out. The head nods, the hand waves, he got those, which was _weird_ and _wrong._ After so many years of knowing a guy, you get used to things being a certain way. Then you learn you've been lied to the entire time. It was hard, it was stupid, but he was dealing with it. Somehow.

The _darts thing_ that was happening right now wasn't really anyone's idea. It was a mutually, silently, proposed “shuffle in the direction of the darts and see who can embarrass themselves the least”, kind of thing that just... happened. The sort of thing that “just happens” after slightly more drinks than is socially (or, at least, morally) acceptable to have on a normal, non celebratory Saturday. Foggy knew Matt could win, if he wanted. He didn't know _how_ , mind you, but he knew it was a certainty that Matt Murdock could hit just about any damn target he wanted with a projectile. Learning this made a college full of “oh sorry Foggy, did the textbook land on your face?” incidents make a lot more sense. Not that he ever believed those were all accidents to begin with.

The one thing Matt _didn't_ have over him in this, though, was the unspoken audience participation. No one really _watched_ darts, they let it ambiently happen around them – at least, that's how Foggy always treated it. Matt being very good at it was bound to bring the kind of attention Foggy knew he didn't want. That was his trump card. Or, it should've been, if Matt hadn't somehow managed to scrape together a slightly-better-than-Foggy performance so far by “beginners luck”. Whatever that could possibly mean in this situation. He had to make a stand.

“Murdock,” he began, pointing first at Matt with his bottle hand, then at the board, “If you beat me at darts, I'll _never_ be able to come back here, you know? I won't be able to show my face! They already know I'm bad at this game, they don't need to know _how bad_! We'll have to stop being friends, because I won't be able to look at you without remembering that I lost to you at _darts!_ Of all things! Darts!” he took a swig, for effect.

Of course, not saying anything about Matt's winning being on purpose. Playing to Matt's desire, that must exist, somewhere, to make his best friend happy, while also admitting between the lines that he had completely, and utterly, lost. He didn't need super hearing or whatever to see through the slight smile playing on Matt's lips as he let out his pretend outburst to know that the _slight_ edge Matt had on Foggy in their competition was an on-purpose _slight_. A calculated accidental victory.

Asshole.

Matt laughed, and wordlessly threw the second dart. A solid clinking noise followed. Matt shrugged his brows at the noise head tilting slightly as the noise set in, before throwing the last. Cuh-clink. The sound of dart hitting solid brick.

Foggy shrugged slightly and nodded at the display, taking a sip of his beer. Victory. “You know what buddy? Nevermind what I said,” he clapped Matt on the shoulder, “The Murdock luck is strong, but not strong enough to wrestle victory from the steady hands of Foggy Nelson, dart mastermind. Honestly, I thought you were going to pull some blindfolded ninja shit and hit all three of those on the bullseye.”

Foggy picked a second beer bottle from the small table near him, and pressed it into Matt's waiting palm. Matt smiled. “I'm...guessing the second two missed?”

Foggy smiled a thin smile, and raised his eyebrows. Trying, willing, his heartbeat or whatever to sound unamused. He looked at the board and back to Matt. “Well, you missed the board, but you hit _something_.” he said, walking over to the wall and picking the darts up off the floor, where they had fallen after the blunt ends had failed to gather much purchase in the brickwork. He returned them to their resting place. “I don't think the pockmarked brick gets you many points, but hey!” he raised his arms, “What do I know about darts?”

Matt sipped, grinning. “Given that we didn't set rules for the game, I'm going to go out on a limb and say... not much?”

Foggy clapped him on the shoulder, and began walking towards the entrance of the bar. They had had their fun, and the existence of the 'darts thing' at all was a sign enough to know they should be going home. Foggy thought of his bed, soft, quiet, cozy and warm.

“Rules?” he said, “Why set rules? No one knows the rules for darts, Matt. No one. Anyway, The moment I set up these so-called rules, there'll be a win condition, and you'll wipe the floor with me. Not that you didn't anyway, but, if there's no documentation, who can say it really happened? Like – remember beer pong?” he shuddered, “Never understood how that one worked out. Until now.”

“Didn't I end up spilling three cups all over the carpet and that... girl from Queens you liked?”

“Yeah, but, only _after_ getting me so drunk I was about to knock them over her myself.” he sighed, “It's fine. If that didn't win her over, almost puking on her shoes an hour later would've done just as good.”

Matt laughed, swaying against Foggy slightly as they almost cleared the threshold of the bar. They stopped only when a man holding a camera abruptly stepped in front of the pair, holding the device up slightly.

“Excuse me,” he said hurriedly, “I couldn't bother you for a photograph, could I?”

“Uh,” began Foggy, looking at Matt, and back to the man, “What? Why? You making an album of worst darts players, or is this some kind of--”

“Oh, no, nothing like that, I just...” he tiled his head, pursing his lips as if trying to find the words, “I just, I just wanted some photos of some random locals enjoying the night life, you know? I run a blog, and... Oh!” he extended a hand, “James White. I'm, uh, I'm a photographer... I run a blog.”

“You said that.” said Foggy, taking his hand. The handshake was limp, but he expected it. The guy didn't look any older than twenty five, and with his tidy hair, trendy clothes and expensive camera, didn't look like he belonged anywhere near Josie's. Considering the circumstance, it was unlikely the guy was a serial killer, or here to take out a hit on some certain defense attorneys. Unlikely. Not impossible. He tried not to glance at Matt, and put on a smile.

“Well.. I... don't think I see a problem? I suppose? Matt?” he turned to his friend.

Matt raised his brows, “Getting our photograph taken by a random stranger at Josie's... you can't find anything that would go wrong with that?”

Foggy huffed. “You make a good argument, but, honestly, if you could see this guy,” he gestured at him. James shuffled uncomfortably and smiled at the pair. “You'd agree with me when I say he doesn't usually hang around Josie's.”

The man nodded, head still lowered, “Yeah, I, uh, I came here to find some different, you know, different sort of people? It's uh...” he darted his eyes around the room, face worried, “not really anything like my college campus.”

He looked back to Foggy, smiling, looking meek, raising his camera again, “Please?”.

Foggy made a show of sighing and lowering his shoulders. “C'mon Matt, let's just do it so I can be in my bed already?”

“Fine, fine” Matt said, waving his hand, “Not like I'll need to see it.”

“Alright,” said Foggy, turning to the man and raising an arm upwards dramatically, “Do it!”

The camera made a small click, click, click as the button was pressed in quick succession by the man. He beamed.

“Thank you so much, both of you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Foggy, “My beauty astounds. I know. Just... if I find that photo on some weird site... I'd... I'd better not.”

He let the empty and pathetic threat hang in the air for a few seconds, as he tried to think of anything more substantial. James laughed. “Don't worry! My blog doesn't get many hits. Listen, I can't thank you enough. I'll leave you alone now. Thanks again!”

He scuttled away, looking at the small screen on the back of his camera. Foggy turned his head to watch as he left, before looking back to Matt.

“The hell was _that_ all about?” asked Foggy, finally making his way through the door to the outside world. “You didn't like... recognise that guy did you? We're not going to wind up photoshopped into something that will ruin us forever?”

“Hm? Him? No. Nothing about him seemed familiar. For once, I think it really might've just been a college student with too much time and too little awareness. Worst that'll happen is we... end up on a blog? I hope Karen's not going to stumble onto it.”

“Oh _God_ can you _imagine_? We'd never hear the end of it! Nelson and Murdock photographed drunk on some internet blog.” He laughed, “As if the DA's office needed any other reason to question our professionalism.”

They chatted. They parted ways. The remainder of the walk home was slow, drunken and uneventful. Foggy silently praised his bed as he slowly drooped into the covers and let himself be carried away, almost immediately, by sleep.

  

* * *

 

Ugh, _Sunday._ Thank _God_ for _Sunday._

Foggy buried his face even deeper into his pillow as soon as consciousness had a hold of him, blocking any possible sun rays from hitting his face. The inevitable now-you're-thirty-and-can't-even-have-just-one-beer light hangover headache crept around him. He refused to let it get anywhere near him as he pulled the covers over himself, creating a perfect lazy Sunday world-denying cocoon.

It didn't help the headache that his downstairs neighbours were arguing about... whether eggs were a breakfast food or a lunch food? He groaned. He was used to arguments about rent, missing phone chargers and accusations of stolen socks, so at least the content was new.

He turned over to attempt to block the sounds out, scrunching his knees closer to his chest and bringing the covers down tight around himself. His side caught, suddenly painful, like a deep bruise. He recalled stumbling into the bar last night, but couldn't believe his drunken self hadn't felt the bump at all. Running his fingers over his ribs and pushing down experimentally, he took a sharp intake of breath. He cursed his drunken self. He let his hand droop slightly, too lazy to move to a more comfortable position (though, he considered, all laying positions are comfortable on Sunday morning).

Laying there and trying not to focus too hard on “But can you _really_ consider that much hot food breakfast? It's just irresponsible!”, he let himself doze. He dozed for at least a solid ten minutes before realising he wasn't in the right bed.

Or the right clothes. Or the right--

He ran the hand he had left somewhere near his ribs slightly further down. Just a couple of inches. He was _reasonably_ certain his stomach didn't feel quite so. Insubstantial, when he went to bed last night. Surely he would've remembered.

A dream. He was still asleep. He wanted to let it go on for just a moment longer, just to see where the plot was headed, but knew the second he realised it was a dream it would kick him out anyway – he'd never managed to grasp the whole lucid dreaming thing. He willed himself awake.

The headache persisted. His side still hurt. The dream continued.

He paused for a few more moments, before willing himself awake again and again. That had never failed to work before. Is this what being in a coma felt like? He shuddered, trying to kick that thought away before it had time to blossom. Failing, but still, trying. 

With a sigh, he heaved himself up from the covers, wrenching his eyes open with unnecessary strain. Since the dream was going to be this persistent, may as well let it take him somewhere until the doctors managed to revive him from th--

He closed his eyes, and, with more feeling this time, opened them again. Same result.

The world refused to appear. It was simply... blackness. Nothingness? Not even the dream knew where it was going, apparently. The dream, that he was definitely in, because whatever was happening, _definitely wasn't._

Oh God, Matt. If he was in a coma right now, the second he gets out of it, he's wringing that guy's neck. Because, surely, he could blame it on him somehow. It always traces back to Matt. Not that he could ever truly hate him, but, the friendly close-by blame was too enticing. Blame the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Blame Matt.

Wait, Matt? Matt. 

Foggy Nelson loved movies. He knew movies. He knew cliché plots. He knew where this felt like it was going, and tried desperately not to stop and consider why. He let the plot take him, and did what he felt he must do. Moving his hand from his bruised rib – _bruised. Bruised. Of course bruised_ – he felt upwards. 

He placed the hand ontop of his head. His hair, short. The panic was beginning to set in. He wasn't sure why, given that it was a dream coma, but it was. He lunged his arms forward, searching for a bedside table. The back of his hand hit the corner with a painful _thud._ Fighting through the frankly unnecessary dream pain, he smeared his hands over the surface, looking for, looking for-- 

His fingers drifted over something cold, thin and metallic. He picked it up, fingers feeling over the smooth edges. He heaved a sigh. 

Glasses. Round. 

He put them down on the bed next to him, finally giving in and beginning to self-analyse why his brain would be giving him _this,_ of all dreams. His brain giving him a 'day in the life' of Matt Murdock to understand his friends plight? His so-called duty? He doubted it. A dream couldn't give him that. It had to be some kind of subconscious yearning. But it couldn't be. He'd never wanted to be Matt, he _liked_ being Foggy. 

And then, a noise. So lost in his thoughts, he almost reflexively grabbed his pillow and launched it across the room at the fright he got. Sudden, loud, close. Some kind of voice. A voice he knew. It chanted at him, and it took him a solid few seconds to get over the sudden creepiness of what it was _saying_ to work out what it _meant._

_Foggy. Foggy. Foggy._

 

* * *

 

Matt woke. 

The hangover was worse than he'd imagined it would be. The headache wasn't bad, the nausea negligible, but the muffling in his ears was unbearable. He rubbed a slow, sleepy hand on an ear, willing it to work properly. Sometimes a hangover would make it hard to focus his senses, but this was unreasonable. He could hear some muffled conversation downstairs about... phone chargers? But not every word. Not even every other word. He sighed, trying to push memories of Stick telling him off for drinking, while hypocritically holding a bottle in his own hand. _Dulls the senses, boy._ He groaned, and lifted himself from his bed. Maybe some exercise would do it.

He let his eyes open on their own accord slowly as he tried to remember where he'd thrown a t-shirt recently. Sense of smell barely functioning, he couldn't track down the washing detergent/deodorant combo that lingered around his clothes, leaving him to operate on memory. Maybe he should drop the habit and put everything away with a label, even the throwaway shirts. He let his consciousness sift back into reality has he recalled throwing one onto the chair in his room, but before he could take a single sleepy step towards it, the thought of shirts was thrown from his mind. Replaced by the dull, confused, barely awake shock at what he was seeing in front of himself. _Seeing._

He clamped his eyes shut. Some kind of leftover from a dream. Memories of sight from years ago. It had been a few seconds. It would be gone by now. Gripping his sheets tightly between his fingers and taking a deep breath, he let his eyes slowly open again. There they were. Still there. Things. In front of his eyes. Sights. The panic was already setting in. He could feel it. The unimaginable, the unthinkable, the thing he'd managed to spent twenty years barely even considering, was happening to him.

He wanted so desperately to close his eyes, but, for whatever reason, he just... couldn't. Like touching a bruise just to check it still hurt. It was upsetting, for some reason, so upsetting, to be _seeing_ , but he just couldn't... stop.

He was having difficulty wrapping his head around _what_ he was seeing, mostly, but the things were definitely there. The obvious things, the things he remembered from childhood. Those, he locked onto, finding some familiarity in the unreal reality he found himself in. Clothes lying around, documents on a desk, posters on the walls. Posters on the walls?

He uncertainly moved his eyes towards them, head leading, eyes nervously flitting. He didn't recall ever having posters. He didn't recall leaving that many socks on his floor. This couldn't be his room. He closed his eyes again, blocking the busy visual stimuli, trying to think. If it wasn't his, whose? _Why_ was it not his room? Why were they not his eyes? They couldn't be his eyes. He put a hand on his forehead, brow creasing. A long lock of hair brushed past his wrist as he did so.

His brow creased further. The room, he was unsure about, but the hair? He'd almost noticed it when he rubbed the sides of his head earlier, but the waking fog knocked it away from him amongst everything else. He might not have an entirely concrete idea of what his hair _looked_ like, but he certainly knew how it felt. And it wasn't _that_. He ran a hand through it. Longer than it was meant to be. What was going _on?_

If this was a dream, if he was still asleep, it was incredibly convincing.

Eyes still clamped shut, he moved a hand over to where he assumed a bedside table would be. If this was someone else's room, and if he wanted to know whose, it would be a place to start. He ran his hands over the desk's contents. Some kind of flat, rectangle object. Phone. Something he assumed could only be an alarm clock. Photo frame. Keys. Deodorant bottle. Some small pieces of paper. That's all he could gleam with his current hands. His weird, numb hands. Like wearing five pairs of gloves. He knew, for real answers, (or, at least, _now_ answers), he would have to open his eyes. He did so slowly.

He went for the photo frame. It had been a while since he'd given one of these any thought, but it was going to be more useful in the short term than hygiene products or knowing that it was ten past nine. The phone could be useful, if he could get into it.

He gazed down at the photo, staring blankly as his mind failed to immediately give him any information based on what it was seeing. He was realising that his visual library of people was stark, at best. The mental pictures he had of people weren't exactly _pictures_. The smell of their deodorant or favourite drink in their breath, their voice, the way they tapped their foot when impatient, the clacking of that bracelet they always wore. You couldn't find any of those things in photographs. He at least had a vague description of most people he knew well enough. Hair lengths, hair colours, whether or not they wore glasses. Faces, as it turned out, were nigh unrecognisable to him if given only the visual.

He blew a long breath of air out of his nose, trying to focus. He looked at the photo critically, taking in the details. Maybe something small would give him a lead. Three figures stood there, smiling, arms around each other. Two men, a woman. The woman had long hair, light. She was smiling wide, a drink in her hand, arm around the one of the men. He, medium length hair, a bit darker than hers. The photo seemed to have caught him mid laugh. His hand was resting on the shoulder of the last figure, the second man, also smiling. He had dark short hair, and dark glasses.

Wait.

He bit his bottom lip, brows furrowed, eyes closed again. He felt overcome with some emotion, suddenly. He opened his eyes again. He was right. That was definitely him. And he didn't realise. Didn't recognise his own face _._ It's not like he'd seen it recently, but it was still. Something. Did he have a reason to be upset? Not really, the rational part of his brain told him. Not knowing visuals isn't... what? Wrong? Weird? He sighed, trying to focus. He could worry about it later, if he didn't wake up before that.

He knew now, touching the glass over their faces gently, that, of course, the other two people in the photo were Foggy and Karen. It was so obvious in hindsight. That niggling emotion, the guilt of not knowing what his only two friends looked like, struck again, just slightly. With a sigh, he let the frame loosen in his hands and fall slightly onto his lap. The movement caused the glass to catch the light, obscuring the photo and shining his reflection back at him. Eyes still on the frame, he looked curiously at the reflection.

It was one of the two men from the photograph, staring right back at him. But. Not the one he necessarily would've expected. He moved a now shaking hand back to the hair he had felt earlier. Medium length. Not short. Foggy's hair.

Foggy's hair. Foggy's photo frame, Foggy's phone, Foggy's clothes, Foggy's room, Foggy's eyes.

Not his. _Not his_. Foggy's. Nothing was making any sense, but the _relief_. It was immediately palpable. Not _his_. Whether this stupid situation was real or not, at this moment, it didn't even matter. He couldn't see. Foggy could.

He caught himself letting out the smallest laugh at the absurdity. How absurd it would seem to an outside observer that he was so incredibly relieved that somewhere, Matt Murdock was still blind. How absurd it was that even in this probably-not-even-real world he was sitting in, he was worried about being able to see.

_Was_ it real, though? This... whatever it was. Mess. He had to face the possibility. After all, if it was a dream, reality would come back regardless of what he did. If it was real... something, somewhere could be wrong, and he couldn't know. Wherever the real Foggy was, he might be in trouble.

He reached for the phone.

He understood how smartphones worked in _theory._ He owned one, he used one, but never with his eyes. The smartphone experience for him was generally voice controls, or tapping at where he knew things would be. The lack of substantial haptic feedback on the smooth screen made them frustrating at times, despite their all around usefulness. They were definitely a different thing altogether for people who could see what was going on on the screens – Foggy had explained the basics of sight-lead smartphone usage to him at some point. You push a button to turn the screen on, then poke the screen a bunch to make things go. That was more or less verbatim what he had said, which, now that he was faced with using one in this way, seemed less than helpful.

He hit a button. The screen turned on.

He was used to thumbing through his on muscle memory and careful attention to sound and vibration, and the thought of having to get through one with suddenly acquired eyes was daunting. Especially one that was set up to be used by someone who had no need for any familiar accessibility options.

The screen presented him with a lot of information at once. First, at the top, the time. Now a quarter past nine. Second, a small box with something that read like an email header. Third, a three by three dot matrix. Puzzling. Fourth, a bar along the top with a menagerie of tiny icons he wasn't even going to attempt to decipher. And fifth, another photo in the background of the cacophony.

It seemed to be of himself and Foggy. He couldn't tell when it was taken. They were in their work clothes, but the exact date and location were a mystery to him. Foggy was beaming up at the camera, arm outstretched towards the lens, holding the device above their heads, other arm draped over the other man. Himself. He was also smiling, head not pointed quite at the camera, but close enough. Just a simple photograph of two friends. What Foggy saw every time he flicked his phone on. He rubbed an eye.

Taking his mind off it, he moved his attention to the dot matrix. He had no idea of its purpose, but given that it was the only truly unknown element on this screen, poked it. The dot he had touched lit up, and the phone buzzed, the dot turned red, and the words 'Incorrect Pattern Drawn' popped up near the bottom of the screen. He poked a different dot. Same result. He ran a finger across the top row of dots. This time, all three dots turned red, a line drawn between them. He pursed his lips.

It seemed to be some kind of passcode input to open the phone, but he had no idea what to do to open it. It wasn't like he could guess an obvious number Foggy might've set, had it been a combination. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh, tipping his head back, trying to will any kind of relevant memory. Foggy had never told him how to get into his phone should he need to. It's not like he would've been able to use it.

He scrunched his eyes further shut, as if it would help. He tried to think of times Foggy had picked up his phone. He did so enough. Come to think of it, the thing always buzzed a few seconds after he picked it up. It annoyed him just slightly, even though he'd grown to anticipate it. Similar to the buzz it had been giving him now. Unlocking and locking both give feedback. Memories and patterns he hadn't even realised he'd picked up were beginning to bubble to the surface. He'd kept giving Foggy and his phone attention after noticing he'd picked it up, listening for that buzz. He'd noticed Foggy always led his finger across the screen the same way every time before the buzz. The passcode? He tried to remember the movement. From what he could recall, it seemed simple. Knowing Foggy, it probably was.

He opened his eyes again (not getting used to _that_ ), and put his finger on the first of the dots, and brought it across the row, down to the opposite corner, and across the row again. A simple Z. The phone buzzed. Unlocked. He didn't even have time to feel triumph, as the screen progressed into a worse, icon filled disaster. But still. Progress.

He tried his best to ignore the icons, focusing on the words. Something here must be obvious. Thankfully, it didn't take much to find the icon on the bottom left labelled 'Phone'. The icon was even of an old phone receiver. Godsend. He tapped it.

It came up with a simple enough dialling screen. He began to type in his own number, tapping at the screen like some kind of unsure bird. A few digits in, the phone unleashed more visual noise onto the screen, popping up with a box displaying his full mobile number. It was labelled 'Matt', appended with a small icon. He squinted at it. It was a frowning face. It had horns. Making a mental note to bring it up later, when he – probably, realistically, his assumptions being correct, _they_ – weren't slowly spiralling into a panic, he hit the green phone button, and held the device to his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter! I hope this one holds up.  
> This chapter brought to you by secondhand embarrassment, and bullshitting on how Matt's powers work

It had taken Foggy a truly unreasonable amount of time to work out how to answer the damn thing. He'd _seen_ Matt's phone often, but apparently he'd never _looked_ at it. Not while it was ringing, anyway. Where was the 'answer call' button? He had no idea. Still didn't. Just pressed and swiped likely locations until it stopped incanting his own name at him. Like a tiny, robotic call for help. He held the phone to his ear, and waited. It was excruciating. Had he accidentally hung up, or was the person on the other end as dazed and unwilling to speak as he was?

He hadn't given up hope that he might still be sleeping. However hospitalised he might be while he does so.

“Foggy?” came his own, compressed quality voice from the receiver. Weird.

He paused for a beat. A couple beats. A handful more beats. He opened his mouth, afraid of what he knew was going to come out when he spoke.

“... Matt?” he said, in Matt's voice. Double weird.

There was a silence. Both parties letting the information truly set in. Foggy's mind raced. This had happened to Matt, as well. Whatever “ _this”_ was meant to be. It still held up that this could be a dream, but he wasn't used to dreams being so logical. He'd much sooner expect the person on the other end be someone randomly plucked from his mind like, like, Michael Jackson, or something equally stupid, rather than the person it made sense for it to be.

He had to accept that either this dream was real enough that he may as well play along, or this was, in fact, real, and was, in fact, happening. He didn't know what he rathered. Trapped in dreamland, or trapped in his own, miserable, slowly depreciating real life? At least real-slash-dream Matt was apparently stuck here with him. Quite literally, he supposed.

“Oh, God.” came a distant voice on the other end, mixed with a sigh of defeat. He imagined Matt had moved the phone away from his face to have a similar, likely less frantic, minor breakdown at his own correct assumption. An assumption, however, implied a disturbing lack of knowledge.

“Oh, no, don't. Don't “oh God” me, Matt.” he said, pressing the phone close to his face in lieu of being able to grab the other man's arm, “That means you don't know what's going on. If anyone would know what was going on it would be you, and you're telling me you don't?”

“Well, Foggy, if you wanted me to guess, I'd say th--”

“No! No, no. Don't say either of the words “switched” or “bodies” to me, because I'm living in a world of denial over here, and would rather not have the idea cemented by someone else saying it to me out loud, thank you very much. Anyway, I don't think I need to know _what,_ as much as I need to know _why,_ so you'd better cough up the explanation or-- or... I don't know, Matt, I'll ruin whatever I can touch without moving from this bed I'm stranded on?”

“Foggy.” Matt quickly interjected, likely aware that Foggy had at least another paragraph of complaining stored, “I. I don't know why-- why this has happened, I honestly don't.”

“You... weren't doing anything last night that might've--”

“No! Foggy, honestly, I swear, for once, this hasn't got anything to do with-- you know. It doesn't. This has to be something else. Probably.”

He groaned. Matt being involved would give him something to direct his annoyance at, but more importantly, would mean he at least had a lead. They were completely lost on this one, it seemed. Business as usual for Nelson & Murdock.

“Fantastic. Great. Well, if you really didn't have anything to do with it, priority numero uno should be figuring out the _why_ , then maybe, just maybe, we can undo it. Because no offense, but this deal isn't really working out for me.”

“Agreed.” Matt replied swiftly. “Look, there's no point talking about it now, I'll-- I'll come over. We can work on it from there. Stay where you are.”

“Trust me buddy, I'm not going _anywhere_.”

“Good. See you soon.”

The line went dead. Foggy dropped the phone next to him on the bed. It landed with a _clink_ on the glasses he'd already forgotten he'd left there. He sighed, finally opening his eyes again, intending to survey the room in front of him before standing, forgetting the obvious. The inherent weirdness of nothing appearing before him wasn't likely to go away any time soon.

He wasn't kidding when he complained about being stranded on the bed. Anything he wasn't touching may as well not exist; he remembered the layout of Matt's apartment, but something about not having the visual grounding made the information he had feel useless. Although he _knew_ there was a wall only a few paces away, having no evidence of it made it not feel real. It would be there if he walked over to it. Right? The uncertainty was nauseating.

“Cmon, Nelson,” he murmured to himself, “Mama didn't raise no quitter. Also, Matt will definitely laugh at you if you've _actually_ not moved by the time he gets here. Maybe not on the outside. But he'll be thinking it. The laughter.”

He caught himself, realising he was babbling to hold off the inevitable. He seriously doubted Matt would ever laugh at him in this situation. He wondered how Matt was doing. Knowing him, he'd be taking it all in his stride, rushing over here without a second thought. Whether or not that was true, the thought spurred him. He had to stand, to put on a shirt, to wait confidently on one of the sofas. He couldn't be useless.

He stood slowly, feeling the world he knew get palpably smaller as the bed's soft touch left him. He took a single, slow step forward, barely even half of a normal stride, both arms held out as a barrier against head injury. He focused on his foot, praying it was going to touch more ground and not a surprise pit of death. It made a soft _plap_ on the floor as it landed, safely. The _plap_ reverberated, almost imperceptibly, and suddenly Foggy felt that he was aware of this room having walls. Somewhere, in this room, walls. While unhelpful, the information was unexpected. He'd forgotten all about the superpowers. They hadn't done much to make themselves known.

“Do these things come with a user manual, or what?” he mumbled to himself, still standing with only one foot forward, “Or do those not come in Braille?”

He looked down at his feet. The void stared back up at him. Almost not believing how much habit informed his natural instinct, he thought for a second, and tiled an ear to the floor instead. He took a second step, listening as hard as he could.

_Plap_. The walls audibly shimmered again, but, as with the first time, their actual location wasn't coming to him, if only because his extra listening strength told him about the bed, bed side cabinet, wardrobe, some kind of small table, and a chair all at the same time. At least, that's the list of objects he _remembered_ being in Matt's room that he was probably hearing about, because the actual information was just scattered mess of shapes vaguely existing in the area.

He sighed. Here he was, in his best friend's bedroom, trying to hear walls. Somewhere else – in this room, apparently – a car's horn honked. He jumped, losing his footing somewhat, but managing to stay upright. The downstairs neighbours bickered by his side. Eggs on toast wasn't real, or something? The fridge he _knew_ was on the other end of the apartment buzzed in his face. His own, panicking heartbeat filled his entire world. He clamped his hands over his ears.

Listening as hard as he could could wait, for now.

He took a moment to compose himself. Everything was far away again, back to being non existent. Back to being in an empty void. Hardly an improvement, but not as scary and distracting. Alone now with his heartbeat, which he was having trouble not hearing now that he'd thought about it too hard. He lowered his hands slowly, letting the absence of sound wash over him. He left his arms out in front of him, and shuffled the remaining few steps to the wall. Exhausted and accomplished, his hands met with its not-as-smooth-as-hoped surface.

His foot brushed against something on the floor as he made the last step. He jumped slightly, but managed to keep his composure enough to prod the thing with his toes. Felt like clothes. He bent over and scooped the article up, flipping it over a few times to feel it out. A t-shirt. Shrugging, he pulled it on, to his surprise, the right way around. That solved one of his issues pretty handily. So long as the thing didn't have any blood stains.

He felt his way across the wall to the door out to the rest of the apartment, which was mercifully close. He stood in the door for a few seconds, trying to get his mental map of the area straight in his head. Sofas should be right _there_.

He slowly wandered over hands flailing just a little bit too embarrassingly as they searched for the furniture. Every step punctuated with an audible map of the area he couldn't possibly wrap his head around. His knee found the back of a sofa before his hands ever had a chance, colliding with the hard surface in the short, dull flush of pain only furniture seemed to provide. He winced back, and placed a hand on it in defiant response, almost home free and grounded again at last. He let out a triumphant breath.

“Matt?” said a hesitant voice, somewhere off to his right.

He flung himself to face it, trying to look as natural as anyone possibly could in this situation, and smiled weakly, trying desperately to place the familiar voice.

 

* * *

 

Karen Page walked up the stairwell to Matt's apartment. Matt's, because she knew Foggy would never be awake enough at this time on a Sunday, and she needed one of the two to talk to in person. It seemed like a stupid idea given what she was visiting for, but Matt always had good insight. Plus, his part in _the thing_ struck her as the most odd.

She opened her purse for a moment, checking it was still there, before continuing up the stairs. It was probably some prank, and she was here wasting her time for nothing. She _should've_ gone to Foggy. He couldn't lie about fooling her, especially not this early in the morning. Matt could lie five shots deep. Still, she was here now, and may as well hear what Matt had to say.

She approached his front door, noting the first curiosity. It was ajar. She walked up closer to inspect it, peering down at the locks. The door _had_ been locked, but whoever did so forgot to check the door was actually shut first. She lightly placed a hand on the door, slowly pushing it open, other hand drifting to her keys, itching for the mace. It was likely Matt had just made a mistake – she'd been there – but she wasn't going to take any chances. And she certainly wasn't going to take any prisoners had someone broken into his apartment.

She crept in slowly, already feeling bad about sneaking, in case she gave Matt the fright of his life. He _was_ uncannily good at noticing when she was around, but she wasn't usually trying to soften her footfalls, and she highly doubted he'd expect her to show up at half nine on a Sunday morning unannounced. She moved up the entryway, noting that nothing seemed out of place or scuffed. No struggles, but...

She stopped dead in her tracks at the sounds of footsteps. They sounded bare, which meant it was probably just Matt. Of course, she had worried over nothing. She nodded in annoyance at herself, working out how quickly she could silently back away and pretend she only just got to the door. Matt emerged from his bedroom, definitely not being mugged. She held her breath, feeling awkward and invasive as he failed to notice her. She took the first step backwards, trying desperately not to look, but finding herself unable to look away, because what she was seeing didn't make much sense.

Matt slowly walked towards his living room area, arms out, searching. It was like watching someone flail around in the dark. But with Matt, in his own living room? He never hesitated while walking around his own apartment, or the office. Even in places he _didn't_ know, he knew how to traverse them with a sense of ease and practice she wasn't seeing here at all. Was he drunk? Was he ill? She opened her mouth, and shut it again. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be watching her friend without his knowledge. But she had to _know_.

He hit his knee on the back of the sofa. She winced, fighting the urge to take an intake of breath along with it. Walking into furniture wasn't something she'd ever seen him do, despite it being one of his go-to excuses. Decision made in that moment, she steeled herself, committing to making sure he was all right, even if it meant embarrassing them both.

“Matt?” she called out. He jumped, spinning around to face her with the least convincing or reassuring smile she'd seen from him, possibly ever, which was decidedly impressive.

She cleared her throat, and took a step forward uneasily, “Uh, are you... okay? Sorry, no, I shouldn't... I shouldn't be here it's just, uh,” she gestured uselessly towards the door, “Your door was open, and I was worried, so I uh...”

“Karen?” said Matt, the face of concentration, “Oh. Uh. No, uh, it's fine, Karen, I'm fine, I'm just uhm. Hungover. Actually, I might still be drunk. A little.”

Karen stared, unconvinced, concerned. She looked Matt up and down, trying to discern what was off about him, as she slowly paced her way towards him. Matt smiled blankly at her, clearly nervous about _something,_ and she _would_ found out what.

 

* * *

 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!_

The word spiralled around in his head, blocking any attempts at thinking of some way to diffuse the situation. He was too panicked to place the voice from one word; it could be _any_ random girl, knowing Matt. Had she just walked in? Was she here _the entire time?_ The thought chilled him right through.

She cleared her throat, “Uh, are you... okay? Sorry, no, I shouldn't... I shouldn't be here it's just, uh,” A pause. Foggy gripped the hard back of the sofa slightly harder, realising who was in front of him, “Your door was open, and I was worried, so I uh...”

Karen! Karen, _Karen_! Why did it have to be _Karen?_ This was insanity. The world was against him. He was going to have to lie to her, and there was _no way_ she was going to believe it. He couldn't even feel relieved that she would be annoyed at Matt instead of him. Shifting the blame just made him feel worse.

“Karen?” he said, mind racing, “Oh. Uh. No, uh, it's fine, Karen, I'm fine, I'm just uhm. Hungover. Actually, I might still be drunk. A little.”

He shifted his feet uncertainly, trying to smile at her reassuringly. Was it the wrong kind of smile? Was he Foggy smiling, instead of Matt smiling? He'd seen enough of Matt's short lived reassurance smiles to last multiple lifetimes. Foggy let his face mostly fall, waiting for Karen to say something. Or do something. He had no idea where to point his face or what to do while he waited. He felt exposed.

Her heels clicking, he could tell she had slowly started walking in his direction. He stared into the Karen shaped part of the void ahead of him, willing it to change from blankness into information. She almost definitely wasn't buying his bullshit, he knew that just from knowing her. But to see her face would be immensely helpful. Was she worried, annoyed? Or just disappointed? The void gave him nothing.

He remembered that thing Matt had said about heartbeats. Something about anticipating people, was it? He hadn't entirely believed or understood. It would be useful, but he didn't _want_ to listen to hers; it was so _creepy_. His ears, however, were apparent believers in reverse psychology, focusing in on her anyway. Her heartbeat. It was indistinguishable from any other heartbeat he'd ever heard. Was this a fast rhythm for Karen? Was it slow? What else could you _get_ from a heartbeat? How could Matt tell _anything_ with this? The only thing he grasped was that it was close. The footsteps could've told him that.

A hand lightly touched his arm. He recoiled automatically in surprise, not even registering at first that it was obviously Karen trying to be helpful. Great job, Foggy, now you just made her feel like an asshole.

“Oh. Uh. Sorry.” she said, so lightly he wasn't sure if he was meant to have heard it, “I'm just worried, Matt. If something's going on, you should just--”

“It's nothing, Karen, honestly,” he lied, desperate to change the subject, “Wh- uh, what was it you came here for, anyway?”

There was a definite pause. She didn't like how he had brushed him off. More than likely she wasn't even surprised, but she just wanted to help, and he had outright refused her. How did Matt _do_ this all the time?

“Oh. Okay.” she said, eventually, letting out a breath, “Sure. I... I found something. It's-- it's uhm...”

He heard the footsteps and adjoining heartbeat move away slightly, towards the sofas. He slowly made his move at trying to sit down without looking like he didn't know what he was doing. He was almost definitely failing, but he figured Karen _might_ be facing away, so now was the time to act. Trailing his hand along the sofa, he managed to find the seat. He heard what must've been Karen sitting as well, and some kind of rustling. Something in her bag?

“It's this.” she said, presumably holding something in her hands, “It's. Well, it's a picture. I'm not sure why I even took it out of my bag,” she laughed nervously to herself just a little, “but, uhm, it's... weird? I don't know. It's just, it's of you and Foggy.”

“... Us?” he said, genuinely alarmed, “Wh-what are we doing in the photo? Is it like, some kind of surveillance or--”

“No! No, it's nothing like that, it, uhm. It looks like you guys knew the photo was being taken. Or, uhm, _yo_ _u_ did, anyway.”

She paused for a second. It took a moment for Foggy to realise she was waiting for a reaction. Of course, if Matt knew the photo was being taken and Foggy didn't, that was probably strange. He felt his blood run a little cold. Matt probably heard it going off before Foggy had had time to react, or something. How was he going to explain _that?_ With more lies? At the very least, he _really didn't_ know what situation the photo was taken in, not being Matt, so it was only half a lie. It didn't really make him feel better.

“I... I did?” he said finally, “W... well, uh, what's going on in it? Maybe it just looks like I knew?”

“No... uh... that doesn't sound right” she said slowly, possibly eyeing the photo as she did so, “I'll describe it. You're, you're inside somewhere. Kind of low light, maybe a bar. You're both in casual clothes, standing next to each other. You're both smiling. Foggy less, though. That's... kind of weird, but, the strangest thing isn't that, it's...” she trailed off for a second, and took a breath before speaking again, “You have your arm on Foggy's, and your other arm is up and out to the side, and with your smile you... you have to be posing, right? But Foggy is just standing there.” She was silent for a few moments, “And. That's it. It's just an odd photo, but I wanted to know the story, before I told you where I found it.”

Foggy, processing the information, let go of the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and brought his hands up to his face, palms together, resting his lips on them. He tried to let the image paint itself in his mind. He definitely didn't remember Matt ever posing for a photo like that without him joining in. But he could certainly remember the opposite being true. Too many times to narrow it down.

“Oh! And it's got a date on it, too, uhm. It was yesterday. Sorry, I, I should've lead with that.”

He brought his head up, pointing, approximately, at where Karen's voice had come from. “Yesterday?” he drummed his fingers together, mind racing. The photograph from yesterday. He had posed then. But it had been _him,_ not Matt. But...

Right now, he _was_ Matt.

 

* * *

 

The real Matt had taken upwards of ten minutes to find Foggy's keys. He didn't know why he couldn't just leave them in the same place by the door every time, like he did. Instead, he'd searched through every bag and pocket lying around the house until he'd eventually found them stashed in a jacket's inner pocket. They probably would've been easier to find had Matt known what Foggy was wearing the night before, but instead he'd had to resort to randomly searching articles of clothing.

He ran his hands over the keys, trying to find the spare keys to his apartment. He'd given them to Foggy as a just-in-case precaution (mostly at Foggy's own insistence), and was incredibly relieved to find the keys on the keychain with the rest. He wasn't sure he had it in him to look for them elsewhere. Climbing in through windows was easier than this.

He wasn't exactly used to seeing again yet. He wasn't _not_ used to it either; he remembered what it was like when he was young, and he'd gotten used to it in some capacity fairly quickly, but his habits were completely out of it. He'd had to use his eyes to find all the jackets he'd poured over, since he didn't know where any were to begin with, but he found himself patting around finding the pockets and searching them without looking. He didn't really _want_ any old habits to come back, but in the short term, it was slowing him down. Foggy was waiting.

He made his way out of the apartment and down the stairs. Stairs, he remembered, were much better when you could see them. He was used to them by now, of course, but using them like this took so much less _effort_. He finished his descent quickly, and put a hand on the door that lead to the outside. It had been a long time. Inside was easy. Outside was daunting.

He pulled open the door regardless, stepping into the outdoors briskly, taking the plunge quickly, like ripping off a bandage. The outdoors hit him with a solid wall of surprisingly little at all, considering what he was used to. Not being able to hear every car around the block was refreshing, but not knowing where they were was inconvenient. The rush of sights, when it hit, was something else. People, cars, moving. Signs that he could read. Windows all around. He let his eyes drift upwards, further still than all the windows. The sky.

He stared up at it for too long. He looked strange. He didn't care. People around him were glancing upwards, trying to peek what he was gazing at. To them, just the sky. To Matt... he wasn't sure, exactly. He had wanted to see it again, but never thought his wish to do so would ever be fulfilled, and hadn't worked out how he should be feeling about it. He stood transfixed all the same. It wasn't even really traditionally picturesque – clouds more than dotted the early morning sky, lightly blocking the sun. He hadn't thought about _clouds_ in _years_.

He looked back down, remembering what he set out to do. Foggy. He mentally mapped the way back to his own apartment, and set out.

He stared mostly at the ground. He'd forgotten how _much_ everything is outside, visually speaking, and lack of sounds withstanding. He hadn't come to terms enough with lights, colours and motion to stare at all of it while remembering where to go – he was finding it harder to pick up on his landmarks. Coffee shop smells, certain dips in the sidewalk, the smell of flowers on balconies above the street. He could look for some of them visually, but he couldn't get doing so into his head. It was too different. In any case, he couldn’t tell the coffee shops in Hell's Kitchen apart by sight. He resorted to just counting blocks, corners and crossings. He kept his head down, and walked.

He arrived, after the most abnormal routine walk of his life, at where his autopilot was telling him his apartment was. He looked up at it, squinting. It looked like every other apartment building he'd seen so far on his walk. Approaching, he ran his hand up the wall leading up to the door, across the keypad and to the lock and handle. This was it.

Walking up the familiar-and-yet-not staircase, he reached his doorway. It was open. He lead his hand along the wood, slowly stepping forward. Had Foggy tried to leave? Had someone broken in? Had he just left it open last night? He furrowed his brow slightly with the effort of remembrance. He remembered the noise the door made when it shut last night being wrong, but he was too uncharacteristically tired at the time to think much about it. He had to work on not letting that happen again. Someone could've got in and hurt Foggy, and it would've been his fault entirely.

He heard a voice. More muffled than he was used to. Coming from the living room area, maybe? It was, to his annoyance, hard to tell. It sounded like someone talking to themselves. Was Foggy on the phone, or just talking to himself? Deciding not to mask his entrance, he wandered into the apartment, absent mindedly trailing a knuckle along the wall as he approached the corner.

“Foggy?” he called out to the room as he entered. To his abject horror, there was – the photo from earlier flashed to mind to help him out – Karen, sitting on the couch opposite – his heart skipped a beat – himself. He quickly looked away. He could deal with that later. Back to Karen. It hadn't occurred to him Foggy had just been talking to someone who hadn't replied, or was talking too softly for his bad hearing to pick up. Not hearing heartbeats was _so inconvenient_.

He had been staring, mouth slightly agape, for too long now to throw in some recovery line. Not to mention that he'd frozen in place as soon as he'd spotted Karen. He was being suspicious. She was looking up at him. He couldn't quite read the expression, but he was guessing either concern or confusion. Possibly both. She looked between the two men with that same look.

“What is going _on_ with you two today?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one this time. This scene sucked out all my mana and I need it to be gooooooone

Matt shifted uncomfortably, one hand still lightly resting on the wall. He continued looking towards Karen. He looked into her eyes. It was meant to be a conscious effort to help with the sincerity, and the Foggy act, but it was the first time he'd ever seen them – he'd heard they were “pretty and blue”, but the words hadn't really meant anything until now. He caught himself falling into wistfulness again – they weren't that important, he reminded himself, there was just an emotional connection snagging him. He had to focus, to not let himself get hung up on her appearance when he had a façade to keep up.

“What d'you mean?” he said, pushing off from the wall and trying his best to look concerned, just like Foggy would, “I'm just... worried because the door was open, did you forget to close it after you came in?”

“No, it was open when I got here,” she said, her steely eye contact not breaking. Matt felt his own eyes watering with the unfamiliar effort, “I should've closed it, it slipped my mind, but... I came in because I was worried it was open, same as you, and I walked in just in time to see Matt walk into his own sofa,” she gestured at Foggy on the couch, who had yet to speak. Matt kept his eyes on Karen, trying not to look in his direction just yet, “Then less than half an hour later you show up unannounced, say your own name and freeze at the sight of me? Forgive me for finding any of this even a little strange.”

She put her hands on her hips at the end of her last sentence, staring down Matt, non-verbally demanding he cough up an explanation. He couldn't help but find the strong use of body language directed towards him kind of odd. Luckily, she was hardly being subtle with it, and he knew her well enough that her stance didn't even tell him anything new – she was bearing down on them, but only out of concern. He also knew she'd _probably_ leave it alone if he made it clear enough there was nothing to worry about. At least, she might be out of their hair long enough for it to get fixed.

“It's – I don't know what to say. First, we were drinking last night, and second, I didn't think you were going to be here. That's all, honest.”

“It... just doesn't seem very like you to make it all the way over here before noon on a Sunday, especially if you have a hangover as an excuse,” she said, brushing a piece of hair from her face, finally looking away, and glancing in Foggy's direction for a moment, “Unless there's something important going on? Something I should know about? Please, Foggy.”

She was giving him a softer, more sincere look now. The lying was harder when he could see her, for some reason. It was probably just the novelty, but some of the subtleties he'd usually miss were glaring at him, even if others were missing. The way her facial expression gently shifted as she couldn't bring herself to stay angry. The glance she'd made towards Foggy – to her, Matt – that gave away that she was worried about him. She was thinking something was horribly wrong with Matt, and now _Foggy_ of all people was fumbling around a lie to cover it up. He swallowed, finally looking away to let himself speak.

“It's not--”

“Oh my God, I can't do this, please just _tell her_!”

He'd heard his own voice repeated back through bad audio recording hardware so often that suddenly hearing it crisp and clear was immediately disconcerting. He'd turned his head toward the noise, but forgot to actually look at where it was coming from. Thankfully, Karen couldn't have noticed the slip-up, because she'd already whipped her head around to stare at the man on the sofa, confused. He slowly brought his head over to finally face himself just in time, as Karen had started looking wildly between the two, sensing the conspiracy.

He looked down at the man, who he was unsure if he should be thinking of as Foggy or himself at the moment, letting the strange emotional guilt sweep over him again as he couldn't automatically connect the face he was looking at to himself. He'd yet to see it without glasses, and ontop of that, Foggy evidently hadn't even touched his bedhead, letting it stay almost vertical in places. It was immensely hard to believe he was really here, seeing his own face in the flesh for the first time in so, so long. Well, at the moment, it was Foggy's face. He was sitting forward, staring towards Karen's knees, looking, as far as Matt could tell, as exasperated as he'd sounded.

“Sorry,” said Karen, giving her neck a rest from flipping between the two, “But _Matt_ wants to tell the truth? No offense.” she added briskly. The Matt on the couch flashed a smile. The Matt standing up pursed his lips for a moment.

“Yes,” Foggy continued, letting the smile come back, “ _Matt_ thinks we should tell the truth. _Foggy_ also thinks we should tell the truth” he turned his head about half way towards Matt, “Isn't that right?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Karen's eyes darted towards him, daring him to say no. He had to concede that involving Karen wasn't likely to get her hurt, as things stood at the moment, anyway, and keeping her out of it was only likely to make both her and Foggy more annoyed. While he could feasibly push Karen away, Foggy was inexorably tied to him for this one. There didn't seem to be any easy way out – they had him cornered. He let out a small sigh.

“Fine, fine, Foggy thinks we should tell the truth.” he said, rubbing his eyes, “And if he wants to tell the truth so much, _he_ should be the one to do it.”

He heard Karen shifting in her seat at the statement, as he kept his eyes scrunched, refusing to look at the pair for anything that might happen next. Karen was bad enough, but if he had to stare at _himself_ any longer, he was going to get a migraine. If he kept looking, he was going to have to think about it, and if he let the freakishness of seeing things he'd never thought he'd see set in for just a moment, he'd be lost to it for God knows how long. So, he was hoping Foggy would jump at the chance to unload and tell the truth, because he didn't even know where to start. Thankfully, he heard him take a long, calculating breath, preparing to begin.

“Alright, so, we were at Josie's yesterday, right?” he began. Matt didn't expect Foggy to start that early. He leant against the wall. “We were playing darts and having some beers. Great time. I totally won, by the way. Anyway, we got that photo you described to me taken there, but, like, in reverse? The person posing was different. We didn't think anything of the photo at the time, though. We went home, I went to sleep, bed was great, but I open my eyes, I wake up to _this_.”

Matt peeked between two fingers to see Foggy gesturing toward himself with all the drama he had expected.

“.... This?” Karen said, looking to where Foggy's fingers were pointed, “A slightly crumpled t-shirt...?”

“No, what? This thing is crumpled?” he pulled at it, running his hands over the stretched fabric, “No, not the shirt, the-- the _everything!_ ”

He waved a hand dramatically in front of his face at the declaration, trying desperately to convey what he meant without actually saying it. Matt trusted Karen's investigative skills, but wasn't sure she was willing to make the frankly gorge-like leap to reach the correct conclusion.

“You... what? You drunk yourself so far under the table you forgot you can't see?” Karen looked towards Matt, who was still mostly cowering behind a palm, with a now familiar look of concern, “Are you sure he's okay?”

“Y-- no, he's, probably not,” he corrected, remembering he was meant to be telling the truth, and dug his forehead deeper into his hand, “Because. Ugh. Because _I'm_ Matt, and _he's_ Foggy.”

The silence was deafening. Almost too literally, since Matt couldn't really hear a single thing coming from the two; no breathing, heartbeats, hands clenching, nothing. He wanted desperately to look up and see what was happening – which was definitely new – but had honestly grown to enjoy not having to look at anything, despite the lack of other sensory information he was receiving. The utter silence was almost as soothing as it was distressing.

“What _is_ this?” came the eventual, almost whispered reply from Karen, “Is this a joke? Please, _please_ say yes. Because what you seem to be suggesting is--”

“Not a joke,” answered Foggy, “I'm really Foggy, honest, and if I _were_ Matt, which I'm not, I don't think I'd agree to this as a prank.” A pause, as he considered, “Wait, would I?”

“I don't think so,” he replied from under his hand, “I mean, this wouldn't really be a joke so much as it would just be... cruel?”

“Mmm. Yeah, you got me there. Not to mention a waste of a perfectly good sleep-in; who plays pranks at nine AM?”

“You'd have to get up a lot earlier than that to fool Karen, anyway, Foggy, so I doubt we'd have any reason to try.”

“ _Ugh_ , you're right.” he conceded, the sofa groaned as he sat back in it, “See Karen? We wouldn't even _try_ to prank you; we're much too stupid and lazy. Well. _I'm_ lazy, Matt's just stupid.”

Matt allowed a small laugh, peering up from his comfort zone. Foggy also sported a similar smile – probably, much like him, he was just happy to have a small sliver of normalcy amongst the chaos. He peered over to Karen, whose expression was changing from bewildered to laughter before his eyes. His own smile stuck on his face. He'd decided he'd much rather see this expression than see her concerned one again. Hopefully there wouldn't be another opportunity to concern her any time soon, in any case.

“This is... happening.” she murmured, running a hand through her hair and bunching it between her fingers, “I guess I have to believe it, do I have a choice? It's so.. outlandish.. but.. I mean... it... it makes so much sense, I mean, with the- the- the sofa and the photo... Oh!”

Her head perked. She stood up, quickly grabbing a piece of paper from the coffee table and walking over to Matt.

“The photo, I guess I should show it to you, too. Um,” she held it up to Matt, who uneasily took the slightly crumpled printer paper from her, she laughed a little, not looking at him, “This is... kind of weird, isn't it? You probably don't want to... talk about it, anyway, right? I... But it must be so weird!”

She looked up at him with fascination. He understood her interest – not only was it in her nature, but the predicament was so definitively unique. He could imagine all the questions sitting at the tip of her tongue, waiting to spring out if he let them. He wasn't sure he wanted Karen to interview him about it. He hadn't even interviewed _himself_ about it yet. Saying his thoughts out loud meant acknowledging them. He gave her a short, curt smile, before looking down at what she had handed him.

“It is weird,” he said quickly, trying not to look at her, blankly staring at the paper, “Just. Uh. What is this photo?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” she said, flustered, looking away, “It's of you and Foggy. Basically, it's weird because the one posing is you instead of him. Which, I mean, I've never seen you act like that unprompted, and the place I found it was weird, so... I thought I'd print it and see why you did that.. it's a flimsy reason, I know, but, something didn't seem right. And then it turned out not to be you in the photo? Or here? M-- Foggy said it was taken yesterday,” she sighed, “This has been a strange day so far.”

He looked down at it. It definitely did appear to be of him and Foggy, and it did seem to line up with his memory of the events the night before, other than the swapped poses. The puzzle pieces were all there, but he couldn't reason what it all meant.

“Where _did_ you find this?” he asked.

“Internet,” she said, “Some guy's blog. I got a weird email from a James White, saying something about you two, so I googled the name. Really generic. Took like, twelve pages into google before I found the right site.”

“Google pages go that high?” came Foggy's borrowed voice from the sofas.

“Yeah, right?” grinned Karen, “I couldn't just give up on it, though. It was such a random non-specific email I had to-- wait, I have it here.”

She walked over to her bag and fished out another sheet of paper, and read the contents.

“ _Dear Mister Nelson and Mister Murdock, thank you for the photo opportunity the other day. I put it up on my blog, you should check it out when you get the chance. Come see me or call me if you have any questions, James White.”_

“... That's it?” said Matt, when Karen lowered the paper.

“That's it. No address, no _web_ address, nothing. He didn't give you a card or anything did he?”

“I don't think so. Foggy?”

“Card? Nah. Guy just snapped a single picture and ran off. Maybe he thought he gave a card. Seems weird to say it's up on a site he never gave us the address to, right? He was so unprofessional, he probably just forgot. I will say one thing though,” he said, waggling a finger, “I _do_ have a few, strongly worded questions.”

“I got a few for him myself,” agreed Matt, gesturing his head toward Karen, “You get an address?”

“No, but I got a phone number. Our best play might be to meet up somewhere, I don't know if coming here is a great idea. Just in case this is something, you know, worse than it already is?”

Matt nodded slightly, “A public place in broad daylight, most people wouldn't try anything drastic. Not sure we'd want to lead anyone to our office, either.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the coffee shop just down the street, stay close and all, but, I think... I think I should go on my own?” she suggested, fiddling with the paper, “It's-- mean, I think you guys should stay here, I don't know if you both seem up to. You know, “client negotiations” right now.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest, but Foggy cut in with urgency, “I'm all for that idea, I'd rather not have to you know, go outside, where the cars are.”

“I won't let you get run over, besides, Karen--”

“Can take care of herself! With that guy? Nothing's gonna happen. I mean, I guess, if we were sure, we'd just get him to come here, but, maybe you don't want him at your apartment? Listen, we'll... phone the police if she doesn't call back soon, right? Call Brett directly, even. She'll be fine out there, I'll be fine in here.”

“What if he doesn't show?”

“Oh, he'll show,” said Karen, “Said on his website he's a college student, the last thing he wants is to be threatened with legal action over this, right?”

“Woah, wait, we're not _suing_ this guy,” said Matt to Karen's back, as she walked towards her bag.

“Ah, but _he_ doesn't know that,” argued Foggy, “She's right you know, he _definitely_ doesn't have the money to deal with the big bad law. He'll do whatever she asks. And anyway, that should be our last resort. You don't _lead_ with court. Not to amateur photographers. Anyway, he looked flimsy enough to give us what we need to get this all fixed with no more payment than a pretty face. Shame it can't be mine.”

Karen smiled, dropping the papers back into her bag, “Thanks Foggy. I can do this, Matt, trust me. I'll phone you as soon as I get anything, honest. Just, hang out here for a bit, it'll all be over before you know it.”

She was already grabbing her bag as she spoke, eager to move before Matt had managed to come up with a reason to make her stay behind. He couldn't even argue the point. He didn't want to leave either of them alone, but he was arguably most useful keeping Foggy company. It wasn't like he was going to be able to fight anyone off like this, regardless of whether or not Karen was watching.

“See you later, Karen. Stay safe.” he said as she brushed past him, lightly touching his arm as she went.

“Kick his ass for me, Karen,” called Foggy after her, as she left through the still open door.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Matt closed his apartment's front door, finally letting it lock with a solid _click._ Were this a normal day, he would've been able to hear Karen's footsteps still tapping down the stairs, but now, with the door closed, they were gone completely. Not that he had any reason to listen, he just liked the peace of mind. He rapped the hard wood gently with his knuckle has he walked back towards the main room, where Foggy waited on the couch.

“Is she gone?”

“Probably,” Matt answered, rounding the corner and heading for the kitchen, “She's out the door, if that's what you're asking.”

Foggy let out a haggard breath, a sigh of relief mixed with a groan of agony, and held head in his hands, “Oh my God, I can stop acting like I'm okay. That's not just me, right? You were pretending to be a lot more okay with this than you actually are?”

Matt was staring at the closed doors of his kitchen cupboards, finding himself unusually perplexed, “Mmm.” he answered to fill the space, as the question caught up with him, “I mean, yeah. Karen's already put us under house arrest, if she knows you're freaking out, she'll hire a babysitter.”

“That didn't really answer my question, Matt. You can talk to me, you know. Are you, like, _okay_?”

Matt scanned the identical cupboards. His hand – and eyes – were tracing from one handle to the next. They all _looked_ the same. Even though he remembered what was in them, it was causing him to trip up and hesitate. He closed his eyes, reoriented himself with the end cupboard, and let his hand automatically move to the correct door. Like anything done on instinct, as soon as you concentrate on it, it starts to fall apart. Though, you'd think “location of items within own kitchen” would be stored in memory more solidly than that.

“I _used_ to be able to see, you know,” he replied. It wasn't an answer, it wasn't even really a reflection of how he felt, it wasn't anything. He knew that. But Foggy couldn't see him fumbling with his own kitchen, and didn't _need_ to know--

“That's _still_ not an answer, Matt.”

Ugh.

“If you don't want to talk about it, I get it, I do, but,” he continued, “ _I_ want to talk about it. Maybe you forget – I mean, this isn't a permanent thing for me, probably, hopefully – but it's freaky as hell not being able to see a damn thing all of a sudden, you know? Not to mention, _ugh_ ” there was a sound like skin-on-skin as Foggy's palms met his face, “Your downstairs neighbours have been arguing _since I woke up_ , I've been unable to stop listening to it this whole time, and at this point, I'm _invested_. That's a super weird invasion of privacy I don't need on top of the _other_ super weird invasion of privacy.”

Matt fished a box of tea from the cupboard and held it to his nose. The smell was muted and distant, but it did seem to be the one he wanted. He placed it on the counter, and continued letting his hands do all the work making the drinks. The _normalcy_   of doing something he was used to without having to look was more soothing than he guessed the tea would end up being.

“Yeah, they do that,” he said, trying, against all he knew he should do, to deflect, “What's it about this time? Because last week they had a real page-turner about--”

“Matt, do you hear yourself? I'm _freaking out_ here and you're joking with my about neighbour gossip? Come on, please, _please_ try to put yourself in my shoes. Okay. Wait. That's really a stupid thing to say given the situation, but, can you give me _anything_? I just wanna know we're on the same page.”

Matt turned his head, opening his eyes to look at Foggy. He was starting to be glad for the disconnect in not quite recognising himself, finding it easier to accept the man he was looking at as Foggy, and not “himself but _not”._ Foggy's hands melted down his face, catching his bottom lids and dragging his eyes open, then further, pulling his face into a distorted scowl. Even he could tell he looked  _defeated._

“I'm sorry.” he said, fighting the instinct to continue to deflect. He didn't know why he thought he could pretend everything was fine, not that Foggy believed it most cases anyway, “I guess I just get around things by not thinking about them too hard. I'm trying really, really hard not to think about _this_ , anyway. I think I'm afraid I'll start to get used to it, start relying on the wrong senses, or, hell, I don't know,” he leaned back on the kitchen counter to face Foggy proper, “Miss it once we get this all fixed?”

Foggy's head was resting in his hands, forefingers gently massaging the unfamiliar cheek bones. His eyes were moving slightly around in their sockets – searching for Matt somewhere in the gloom.

“Huh. Honesty.” he said slowly, “Well, I know _I'm_ not gonna miss this. Again, no offense, but this blows. I _thought_ you said you could see.”

“What, back when I first told you? You put me on the spot. I said what you wanted to hear,” he shrugged, turning back around to pour hot water into the mugs, “I don't know how it's been working for you so far. I guess you wouldn't know how to use it. No one would. It's not seeing – you have to feel it and listen for it.”

“What does that even mean,” mumbled Foggy, sounding distant.

“You've come this far without getting an idea?” he said, picking up the mugs and turning, “You can hear people talking downstairs. That can't be all you got.”

Foggy sighed, looking downtrodden, “Yeah, some stuff. If I listen too hard it's like I can feel sounds. Which I hate, by the way. I don't know why I hate it, maybe because it's so hellishly unnatural? Are you telling me you can _see_ like that?”

Matt wavered, hot mugs in hand, staring at the short trek in front of him. He shut his eyes. Why was it less daunting that way? Some things were more frightening when you could see them coming. Living rooms weren't usually on that list.

“Not seeing,” he corrected, stepping forward, “There isn't a way to explain it, but you're in the unique situation of being able to experience it for yourself. Anyway, you have to use more than just the hearing if you want to start, uh, "flippin' around"."

“Ooh, and once I get that down, then can I start punching out drug dealers?” asked Foggy, sounding very unamused.

Matt huffed a short laugh, used to Foggy's taunts and disapproval by now, placing the mugs down on the table, sliding one in front of Foggy. He sat, keeping his eyes closed and pretending, for one, precious moment, sitting here on his own sofa, that everything was normal. But they weren't. He opened his eyes. His own face sort-of-stared back at him.

“What's this?” said Foggy, hand slowly outstretching to the noise of the object placed on the table, “Also, you can keep the flips, I'd settle with navigating your apartment. I went to the bathroom when Karen was over --  _mostly_ to hide. It was the most anxious I've been since, like, our first day in court.”

“You didn't remember where my bathroom was under pressure? Also, it's tea. It'll help. Well, it probably won't but, it's something to occupy yourself with,” noting Foggy's hesitant fingers, he continued, “It's right ahead. Just reach low and slow till you find it.”

Foggy complied, hand hovering just above the tables surface, inching closer to the mug. When his fingers connected, he wrapped both hands around it. “Wow. Look at me, thirty years old and I'm learning how to do basic, everyday tasks. Is it bad I feel super proud of myself right now?” he laughed.

Matt smiled, “I'd be deducting points if you'd spilled anything, but, no, it's not bad. It's hard to adjust to, I remember that. Especially, I'd imagine, if you're not an putty brained little kid like I was. Really, Foggy,” he said, looking down at his own mug, “I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry I brushed it off.”

Foggy smiled, thumbs gently smoothing the rim of the mug, face hardening slightly as he returned to the other topic of conversation, “And, no, Matt, it's not that I couldn't remember where your bathroom was. As we just established, not used to being blind over here. I can't even get around my _own_ place with the lights off most of the time. Not to mention, I had to do this with Karen watching, and she thought I was _you_! After the sofa thing, I had to stroll over there confidently like I knew where I was aiming. I hunkered down in there for as long as I could, hoping she'd think I was contagious and leave or something,” he took a breath, and Matt didn't attempt stop him from continuing, “ _Not to mention_ , I had to do all that feeling like I got freaking _run over_. And making sure Karen didn't know I – you – were hurt. You're not _made_ of ribs, you know?”

Matt put his hands around his own cup, “It's not that bad. Just some bruises. Sorry it hurts. And sorry Karen came over, really threw a wrench in the works. You know how she worries. Can't imagine that was anything but stressful.”

“A wrench? Are you kidding? I mean, yeah, pretending to be you while she was over was _awful_ , but she's out doing the legwork for us. Now I don't have to go anywhere. Not that I _like_ sitting around waiting for things to happen, but it's better than...” he trailed off, taking a sip of the tea. His face twitched, “Oh my god, I feel like I just drank a plant. Did you scrape leaves off the ground in the park for this?”

“It's just herbal. Sorry,” he gestured to his mouth, then stopped, remembering Foggy couldn't pick up on it, “Strong taste buds. You get used to it. Sort of. Try not to focus on the flavour too much and it won't taste like leaves.”

He took a sip of his own. Conversely, for him, it was more like drinking plain hot water. Well, almost. The taste was there, hanging around on the edges, barely an afterthought. It was better than accidentally honing in on the taste of chemicals in the water, but it wasn't the taste he was used to. It was warm and soothing, though, just as he knew it would be. It didn't really help, as he had correctly supposed, but it was  _something_.

“Hey Matt?” said Foggy, breaking a short silence between the two as they had been nursing their mugs, “Have you-- this is, I mean, this is stupid-- but, y'know-- did you-- did you get a look at my face?”

The question caught him momentarily off guard. He  _did_ see Foggy's face, but he wasn't expecting a quiz on it. He was so out of the habit of assessing people's faces, he barely registered anything from it. He had tried to look properly, he really did, but it was difficult to connect the face to Foggy from a static photo. It was harder still in the mirror, where he was  _wearing_  the face.

“Uhh-- Yeah, in a couple photos, also in a mirror on my way out.”

“Does it-- does it look anything like that time I let you touch my face?”

Matt laughed, “Kind of? I don't know. The real thing is different. Better. It's a-- uh, a good face?” he managed.

“Huh, well. I just thought I'd. Y'know. Ask. Kinda weird we've known each other for so long and you've only just now seen what I look like. I mean, not weird, because you can't usually see me. And that's fine. But weird you _have_ now," he coughed, "So I think, you'll forgive me if I don't take your _heartfelt_  compliment on my appearance to heart, blind man. Thanks anyway.” he said with a smile, and gestured to himself, “I'm sure it's nothing compared to your own handsome face, am I right?”

Matt looked up at him again. He didn't know what to think – it was still so _unreal_. It was a face, and he could see it being his. It didn't exactly _not_ look how he'd imaged it would, based on what it felt like. But he'd never had a very solid mental picture, either. Up close, he was getting caught up, predictably, on his eyes. They would be completely unremarkable if not for how they were staring into space – which he obviously expected – but he could never properly picture in his minds eye, when imagining himself, how vacant they looked. He knew it shouldn't make him feel bad. No one would expect anything else. But all the same, he could feel some of his childhood insecurities coming back as Foggy's empty gaze bored a hole through his right shoulder.

“It's... weird,” he settled on, pushing the thoughts away as he had many others, “I don't know, Foggy, I'm trying not to think about it.”

Even though he _was_ thinking about it at every opportunity, it wasn't exactly _lying._ He was _trying_ not to think about it. Trying and failing.

“Fair,” said Foggy, sitting back in his chair, “It's enough weird having my own voice talk to me, glad I don't have to deal with a super confusing visual, too. Though _any_ visual would be good, if I'm being honest. When d'you think this'll be fixed?”

“I don't know,” said Matt, “Could be hours? Days? If it's not sorted soon, we might have to speak to clients--”

“Oh, oh, oh no. Know what, I'll take cars, I'll take the streets, I am _not_ letting you speak to our clients as me. Also, I can't even read your notes, so this _is_ getting fixed before that needs to happen.”

“You're willing to brave the outdoors over leaving me alone in a room with a client?” Matt grinned.

Foggy leaned forward, a small smile on his lips, his eyes, however unfocused, determined, “Show me how to use the cane, I'll run out into the middle of the road with it if it means I can stop you from ruining my reputation.”

* * *

Karen sat in the coffee shop, stirring her drink thoughtfully. She'd phoned White, and he said he'd come along as quickly as possible. He was curt, and sounded almost shaken. Did that mean he was unlikely to hurt them? Time would tell. It had been over half an hour so far. She'd picked up a second coffee, just for the nerves, and had more than settled down in a window seat. She peered out onto the street, eyeing anyone who looked student-esque.

Her biggest concern right now, before she'd got to meet the guy, as she sat here waiting for god knows what, was that this _was_ all some kind of big joke. That this guy was someone roped in to play a part. She stopped stirring, and took a drink. Matt and Foggy probably wouldn't lie about something like this to her – well, Matt might – but it was still _unbelievable_. That being said, aliens had attacked the city, people out there had all sorts of _powers,_ so nothing should truly be discounted as impossible. But to think that someone with those abilities would be messing with the lives of anyone she knew was-- okay, not _impossible_ , given everything that's happened, but there were so many people in this city. It should be so easy to blend in and be nobody, never see any of these things happen first hand. But here they were.

“Uhm, sorry, Are you Ms. Page?”

She jumped, startled, and placed her drink down, barely avoiding spilling it. She'd been so lost in her thoughts, she'd forgotten to actually take in what she was seeing outside the window. She peered up at the man gingerly standing in front of her table. He was young, definitely looked like a student, regular in every way she could imagine. Nothing stood out – just some guy.

“Oh, uh, yes! That's me, I take it this means you're James White? Please – take a seat,” she gestured.

He sat quickly, fumbling slightly as he did so. He was sheepish, visibly uncomfortable and unsure what to do with his hands, unsure where to look. He bunched his fists under the desk and looked down at Karen's coffee.

“Uh. So. Yeah. I'm James White,” he said, “I guess since you called me here... it's happened again.”

He let out a small sigh.

“Again?” said Karen, “ _This_ has happened before? And.. I take it _you_ did it?”

He nodded. “Yeah it's...” another sigh, “Okay. Let me start from the start, if that's okay.”

“Of course,” she said. She wasn't expecting an immediate confession. She wasn't expecting him to look so... _apologetic,_ either.

“It's like this,” he began, “I can do things with pictures. Photos, mostly, they're easiest. Just... uh... things. I don't know. Not sure you'd believe me – though, if you've seen what I did to them... then.. maybe you would,” he paused biting his lip, “I'm a photographer... I like to take pictures of people, and, well, what I can do... I can gain a sort of insight from photographs of people. It's a hobby... kind of like-- like people watching? I can sort of see what people were feeling when a photo was taken. But sometimes... sometimes I mess it up, I still haven't worked out the cause, but if there's two prominent figures, somehow, I muddle them up. But,” he looked up at her, his eyes sincere, “I swear, it usually only happens for an hour or two, max! Enough time for people to get confused, then wake up and think it's a dream. I've only seen it last for longer, like, twice!”

Karen blinked at him. He had unloaded everything onto her at once, which she hadn't expected. She'd expected him to put up a fight. He'd not only said everything, but he'd let it all tumble out of his mouth in one go. Evidently, he'd been rehearsing on the way over. That, or this had happened so many times, he'd just practised what he had to say.

“You... okay, wait, you have some kind of... _photograph power_ and then... what...? That somehow makes people...” she leaned in, almost whispering now, not wanting _this_ conversation to be overheard, “Swap... bodies?”

She tried to look him in the eye while she said the last two words, but his gaze was darting all over. It wasn't that he didn't want to be here, it was just that he was... embarrassed?

“Yeah, as I said, I don't know _why_ that happens. I-I think it's something to do with how I'm reading people in the picture? I've got some theories, but-- that's part of why I _do_ this so much. I'm working it out. B-but I told you, it basically never lasts! I send the email when I notice it's messed up, so people can get in contact with me if it _does_ last _._ Or if they realise it wasn't a dream so they can tell me about it – maybe try work out why it's happening so I can stop doing it. The guys I did it to this time... who was it, the two guys at the bar, right? I forgot to give them my card, but, I asked around and got their names. The lawyers... Nelson and Murdock, right? Are you _sure_ it's still affecting them?”

“Those... those are the ones," said Karen, “I don't think it's been in effect for two hours yet, so, it could still just wear off, you said?”

“I hope so,” he said, putting his hand in a jacket pocket and taking out a folded piece of paper, “But, I have a _test_ for working out whether or not it'll be short or not. It's not a very good one, but you know these guys, right? You tell me what you think of the photo.”

He handed the paper over to her. It was the same photograph from before, printed on cheap printer paper, almost identical to the version she'd printed off herself. Except...

She took her own copy out of her bag, and held it in her other hand. A five year old could've worked it out – spot the difference was a thing after all – she was looking at two of the same photograph, but the people in the version she'd just been handed were the other way around. The _right_ way, if she'd have to guess. Foggy was hamming it up for the camera, and Matt was standing by his side. That's the way it should've been from the start. The reason she'd ended up here in the first place, strange email aside.

“Oh, you printed the switched copy?” he asked, trying to peer at the paper in her hands, “When I swap two people, it flips them in the photo I use. I take a scan of the swapped one to put on my blog, so they can see it if they look me up. To send the message without... saying it. Don't wanna put _that_ on the internet, y'know. But the version on my camera's still the same – my … uh... thing... only works on paper copies, so I have to print it out to do it.”

Karen was still looking at the two pictures, scrutinising them. She'd guess it was a photo manipulation job, if it wasn't so perfect. She'd guess it was just two staged photographs, if they weren't so _perfectly_ similar. Everything from the lighting to the exact expressions on their faces was the exact same. It was getting harder to admit that this wasn't _really happening_.

“Uhm. Anyway. If you want to do my test, basically, I've been toying with the idea that the swap's more likely to occur if the photo is a good... uhm... if it shows who the people in the photo are? Like a good snapshot of their character. Everything I can do works better if the photo encapsulates who a person is. There's gotta be something _else_ too, that makes them swap, but I haven't worked it out. Something to do with how they felt at the time of the shot? Maybe if it shows their relationship as well as just their own selves? I've not got enough examples to work it out yet.”

Karen glanced up at him, “So you want me to just... see if it looks like the photo's very... _them?_ ”

That was what she had noticed was wrong in the first place. It was so very _not_ them. It was so _clear_ now, that they were doing what the other would do in the event of a photo op. Foggy, especially after a few beers, would pose, he'd want to make a photo anyone, and everyone, would remember. Matt... would just smile and let the photo be taken; she wouldn't expect him to do anything else. Photos weren't his thing. That's what the picture was telling her, on the surface. But, if she had to bring out her inner art critic... she chewed a nail as she examined the photo in more detail.

Foggy was easy – he wanted the photo guy to get a good picture, so he _gave_ him a good picture. He was helping out. That's what he _did_. Matt... Matt would agree to the photo because Foggy would agree to the photo. He'd grin and bear it, because that's what _he_ did. But... Matt was the one who jumped into things without thinking, leaving Foggy to trail after him and pick up the pieces. If _Matt_ had agreed to the photo, it'd be Foggy left to make it look _good_. They'd be at odds either way, but there they were, hands on each other's arms, inseparable. Whichever way it happened, it seemed an almost perfect encapsulation of their relationship, completely, she was almost definitely assured, by accident.

She looked up at White, who was biting his lip in anticipation, “It's... it's them all right.” she said quietly.

* * *

Foggy stepped slowly and carefully into the abyss, tapping the cane ahead of him. This was possibly the most embarrassing thing he'd ever done. He'd messed around with Matt's cane before, obviously, but actually using it while he could _see_ him was gut wrenching. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being judged, even though Matt had been nothing but supportive. Not _amazingly_ helpful or good at tutoring, but he was _trying_. He had explained the basics on getting around, and on using the cane. He knew exactly what it was like, of course, so it wasn't surprising Matt would want to help make the remaining time he had to be blind as painless as possible. But he hated not knowing what was going on around him. Matt could be doing anything right now. He could feel his judgemental eyes. Was he imagining it?

The cane bumped the sofa, jutting the handle into his palm uncomfortably. He was holding it wrong. He winced. Matt knew.

“Well, I did it,” he announced regardless, “I walked all the way to the other end of the room _and_ back.”

“Not bad,” said Matt, from somewhere nearby, “Still not holding it right, but, hey, you didn't knock over anything this time.”

Foggy grunted, “Great. Maybe I won't fall down any open manholes either,” he said, sitting down, trying to remember how to fold the cane, giving it a few experimental nudges.

“If we have to go anywhere, I'll lead you,” said Matt. The cane was removed from his hand. Some clicking noises followed, “This was just a precaution, really, I shouldn't think we'd be going anywhere separately.”

“Ugh, God, I hope not,” said Foggy, “Either I have to grope around in the dark, or someone talks to me and thinks I'm _you_.”

Matt laughed, “You shouldn't need to grope around in the dark. Well, it'll always be _dark_ but you shouldn't have to grope around.”

“Oh, what, you mean the _super hearing?_ Nice try, but last time I listened to anything too intently I almost fell over because a car materialised in the air in front of me.”

“It's not-- I mean, there's good _hearing_ but,” he stopped for a second, “It's surprising to me that you're not complaining about it. You said you can hear the downstairs neighbours, but not constantly hear all the traffic outside, or smell the dirty laundry? It's like you focused in on them by accident and have been ignoring everything else, which is honestly kind of impressive. When I was a kid I couldn't stop listening to _everything_. Even now it can be a _trial._ I suppose since my head is used to sorting through it, and you're accidentally focusing on something, you've tuned everything else out. I guess that's a lot easier to do in my reasonably quiet apartment building than it is out in the street; you won't be so lucky if we go out there in the middle of the day.”

“Wait, smell the dirty--” he stopped, realising he'd reverse psycohologied himself. He had stopped listening intently to the neighbours downstairs. He was subconsciously trying to smell the dirty laundry – and there it _was_. Almost as if it was under his nose, but far away at the same time, “Oh my god, Matt, why.”

“Sorry. I should've said the food in the fridge,” Matt laughed.

He was right, there _was_ food in the fridge. The milk was going off. The trash needed to be taken out, and the toilet smelled of the hand soap he may have used too much of earlier. The cars on the street honked at each other. A heartbeat across from him was steady.

“Argh-- Matt! Why'd you say that? Now I'm _noticing_ things. I was doing so well until now, pretending everything was at least _semi-_ normal.”

“Sorry – sorry. I should've realised saying that would've done something,” he said, “Just focus on one thing, it usually helps.”

Begrudgingly, Foggy focused on the most obvious point of reference – Matt's heartbeat. That seemed to be what Matt did, after all, and Matt knew what he was doing. He still _hated_ doing it, but the cars were beginning to rush louder and louder into his ears, and he needed the relief. _Thump-thump-thump._ Matt, sitting across from him. He hadn't even realised he'd sat down, but the heartbeat told him where he was, like a pinging on a radar. It made sense. Sounds can tell you where things are, even with normal ears. But this was a  _little_ too precise for his liking right now.

“It'd probably be helpful if you could learn how to use my senses,” the voice above the heartbeat said, “Just a little.”

Foggy made a non-committal _nnhh_ noise. He would love to feel a little less trapped on a stranded island, but it _skeeved_ him. Maybe it was how much he collated Matt's senses with his vigilante-ism. The reminder that Matt had _lied_ to him for years didn't help either.

Ignoring him, Matt continued, “You have to use more than just the obvious sound – you can hear how sound bounces off of things. Regular blind people can do that, helps to find walls and so on. But I – you – can use it to gauge more. Add in how you can feel the air moving around, vague temperature reading, taste and smells in the air, you can get a decent picture of what's going on. In a non-visual sense.”

Foggy tried to concentrate on those things, but had no idea what most of it even _meant_. Maybe if he'd been able to do it since he were ten, he'd have an idea of how to read it, but as it stood, he felt like a kid glaring at a pen, trying to make it move with his mind. He'd done enough of  _that,_ and it had never worked. Superpowers shouldn't be allowed to be so  _complex._

He focused as hard as he could on Matt as he continued to speak, something about tasting air. He tried to work out what the sound of his voice was doing, bouncing around or whatever, but found himself just getting distracted with the mental image. Matt was _right there_ in front of him, and apparently, he should be able to not only tell that, but tell what he was _doing._ He felt some kind of sudden movement as Matt finished speaking. A gentle _fwoosh_ that was as loud as if someone had blown in his ear. The movement illuminated... something. Something close.

“Foggy?” said Matt, “You okay?”

Matt's words reverberated, Matt's heartbeat fluttered just slightly, Matt's hand, brought forward, close to Foggy's face, shifting its grip ever so slightly on something metallic with a gentle _grrrp._ Something was moving ever so slightly, inches from the tip of his nose. He could smell it, like his fingers after handling too much change mixed with a faint smell of... dirt? The information hit him all at once, and he got an _image_... well, not an image, but he somehow just _knew_. Matt was holding the cane, still folded, pointed right at him. He jumped back in surprise.

“Woah.” he said, hand reaching out to touch where he somehow knew it was, as the fleeting image disappeared, his focus gone.

“Huh,” said Matt, removing the cane, “I'm not sure I expected that to work.”

Foggy tried to focus on Matt again, but the image wouldn't come back. He was getting...  _something_ from Matt's heartbeat, a knowledge that he was shifting back into his seat from the sounds it made, but not much else. He was  _there_ , but now he wasn't.

“Yeah, I didn't either. Nothing now, though," he said, "You fight guys like five on one in the dark like _that?_ ”

“In the dark?” Matt grinned, the smile not visible, but audible, “Foggy, that makes it _easier._ ”

Foggy puffed his cheeks slightly, thinking about it, “Hm. Yeah. Makes sense. But _still_. I can't _believe_ you, I thought these powers of yours made you like, _psychic_ or something. That's how it looks from the outside. Maybe I'm just no good at using them, but, _God_ , Matt. You're... you're just some guy. Some guy who  _hears_ well.”

He wasn't sure what he expected. He knew from  _experience_  a knife would cut Matt just as easily as anyone else, but he was falling back on his powers as some kind of safety net to make his anxiety go away. If Matt had some abilities, he'd be okay, right? All evidence was to the contrary, but still, part of him was hanging onto it. Now, though.... now, he knew the powers didn't realistically do much to help against a knife that a regular ability to fight wasn't already doing. He tried to comfort himself on the fact that he knew he wasn't using the powers well. There were some tricks to it he just didn't know. Matt knew them. There was more to it, right?

“I'd imagine I'm better at using my own ears than you are," said Matt, brushing off the concerns as he always did, "Not to mention, I do know _how_ to fight in the first place. Trust me, Foggy, I know what I'm doing. Fighting five guys in the dark sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Ugh. Don't remind me, actually. I still hate what you do, you know. I don't think this has made me any less _afraid_ for you, especially given how many injuries you end up with, and the fact I found you _half dead_ once already. You can only “fall down some stairs” so many times, buddy. You'll hit your head one of them some day.”

Matt shifted, “When did this become an opportunity to lecture me?” he asked, though he didn't sound hurt. It was almost routine.

“Sorry,” Foggy said, “It's... I hate it, but it's super impressive or whatever that you can beat up five guys in the dark on Tuesday, and almost not be late for work on Wednesday. I just hope I never have to see it, or see your _corpse_.”

“Me too,” said Matt, quietly. There was a small intake of breath, as Matt prepared to say something else--

The phone going off broke the mood clean in half. It was buzzing from Matt's pocket. Foggy heard some rummaging.

“Hello?” said Matt.

Foggy leaned in, trying to hear the other end. It had to be Karen. He wanted to tell Matt to put it on speaker so he could hear, but wasn't sure he wanted to burden Matt with figuring out how _._ At least not while Karen could hear them.

“ _Hey F-- Matt? It's still Matt, right?”_ said Karen's voice, clear as day. Well, as clear as his cell phone's quality was likely to get. The hearing. Right. He'd already forgotten.

“Yeah, it's Matt. What's up? Did you find him?”

“ _Yeah, yeah, I got him. He's really...”_ her voice lowered, “ _He's really kind of a pushover, actually. I was expecting more, but, no, he just wants to fix it and leave us alone. I can't tell, but he seems honest about it. I suggested we meet up at the office – he needs a printer, and he needs you two in person.”_

“The office? Karen, I said--”

_Yeah, Karen_ , thought Foggy, _he said we_ stay here _, please please please stay here..._

His palms were already beginning to sweat at the thought of actually having to be _where the cars are._ He trusted Matt, but he trusted the indoors a smidgen more.

“ _I know what you said, Matt, but unless you have a printer in your apartment, and I couldn't possibly work out why you would, you'd better come over. Please, Matt? I won't let him pull anything.”_

Matt sighed, and was silent for a few moments, “Alright. We'll come over. See you soon, Karen. Be careful.”

There was a moment of some audible shifting from Matt, presumably as he put the phone away in a pocket.

“You heard that, right?”

“H-heard what?” said Foggy, too embarrassed to admit he was eavesdropping, even if it was into a conversation he had every right to be privy to.

“Foggy, you visibly craned your neck forward when I picked up the phone, I _know_ you heard it,” said Matt, not buying his lie for a moment, “But you know what this means, right? We have to go out there. You think you can do it?”

“I-- uh,” Foggy cleared his throat, and jumped to his feet, hoping the action would fool his anxiety and cold sweat into going away, “I was _born_ ready my man, let's _do_ this!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!

"All right, we're leaving.”

It was said with the truly necessary amount of ceremony, given the effort it had taken to get them this far. Matt had ushered Foggy into some clothes suitable for walking outside in, which, at least, went fine, because getting clothes on without sight was well within Foggy's skillset. Foggy had even remembered he'd left the glasses on the bed, although it was Matt who'd actually located them. Getting out the first door was fine. Getting _to_ the second...

Going down stairs with your eyes closed was something that just _wasn't done_ , Foggy had thought. The fear of falling into a pit with every single step was immense and overpowering, and although Matt had told, and demonstrated, how to use the cane to find the next stair, and even told him how many stairs were on each flight, it still took some doing. He'd mumbled something-something about the ADA, but they both knew that the building wasn't under any obligation to install an elevator. Foggy was just, at this point, finding it easier to cope with everything if he had a constant stream of something to complain about to fix his mind to.

Matt had offered to hold his hand, and, once, probably (given what Foggy knew about his own upper body strength, definitely) jokingly offered to princess carry him, but Foggy was determined to seem at least semi-competent. If he was going to moan about it, he may as well get it done with his own willpower.

He made it, in the end. He mused to Matt that, living on the top floor and having to deal with _that_ every day, made him unsurprised that he'd taken to just _jumping off_ the buildings.

Before them now stood the door to the outside.

Matt opened the door and led Foggy out, offering his arm, just the way they'd practiced indoors. Foggy took it, holding the cane in his other hand up off the ground like Matt had told him to.

“This is incredibly bizarro,” said Foggy, as they crossed the threshold and Matt stopped to close the door, “I've walked with you down these streets like a billion times, we can't just be flipping roles now.”

“You wanna lead?” grinned Matt, holding his position at the doorway, “You can lead if you want, I've never actually lead a blind person anywhere before. Heard you have a bunch, though. Might be more qualified.”

“I think you'll do fine, I kinda like this blind leading the blind thing we have going on right now, if only for the poetry. I'll give you some pointers if you mess anything up, I promise.”

Matt chuckled, and began walking. Foggy stuttered slightly in following him, admittedly terrified. He'd tried walking down a block with his eyes closed once, just to see what Matt had to deal with. He'd found that his eyes fought to open after only a few steps, his self preservation instinct screaming at him. His eyes were _trying_ that now, but given that they were already open, were having a hard time of it. His ears decided to pick up the slack, his attention drifting outwards to the street around him, determined to pick up on any stray vehicles that might want to come run him over.

He was assured only by his intact limbs and stable consciousness that he _wasn't_ being run over, because the cars rushed into his ears like the road ran into one, right out the other. The preview he'd had of up-close-and-personal car noises from inside was _nothing_. He thought they were loud before. Now they were turned up to eleven. Not eleven. Like, fifty. At _least._ He jumped at the first car to drive by, only losing stride for a moment, hopefully not enough time for Matt to notice. He could still keep face.

People walked past him having conversations with megaphones right into his ears. They were wearing an entire bottle of perfume each; it made him want to gag. Their footsteps thundered around him, he could taste the sweetness of a heavily sugared cup of coffee, its scent wafting under his nose.

Another car rushed past, engine _blaring_.

“ _\-- And that's when I said to her, maybe you should--”_

People.

“ _\-- I know, I'm going as fast as I --”_

People _._

“ _\-- I'll have the report by Monday, I just --”_

_People--_

“ – _Looking like it's going to be another warm one --”_

A car radio, wailing on its way past--

“ _\-- Are you kidding me? He thinks he can --”_

“Foggy!”

The last one was said in a low murmur. Close to his face. Louder by proximity, but somehow quieter in feeling.

“Foggy, hey – Foggy, listen to me, okay? Focus on me. Find my heartbeat. Don't listen to anything else.”

He did. There it was. It was faster than he remembered it being last time.

The rest of the sounds, the smells, the cacophony melted away. They were standing still on the street. His hand was gripping someone else's like a vice. The other was similarly squeezing the cane, somehow already slick with sweat. How long had they been standing still? How long had they even been _walking_?

His arm shook gently.

“Hey, Foggy? You okay?”

He was back. Matt. The street. Going to the office. Right.

“Uh. Uhm. Yeah,” he said, more out of breath than he'd expected, “That-- uhm. Hm.”

“Yeah, I know, the street in the day time, it's really loud. I should've said. Just focus on something. Me, I guess. Can we keep walking? The more we walk the quicker we can be done.”

“Yeah. Let's walk. Walking is good.”

They walked.

He tried to keep in his mind nothing but the man walking beside him. It was certainly a task, because the more he focused, the less he could avoid that it was, for all intents and purposes, _himself_. He could smell his own apartment, his own shampoo, deodorant, even the slightest hint of the beer he was drinking last night. He'd accepted Matt's passing remarks, the ones along the lines of “knew you were here 'cus I smelled your deodorant”, or “didn't recognise you at first, did you change your shampoo?” as minor passing remarks from his blind friend, like one would mention a haircut or new shoes, or even as _jokes_. He didn't realise how much Matt really could smell on a person. It was kind of a weird thing to go into detail on, he supposed.

He was never taking a tuna sandwich to the office _ever again_. It was the _least_ he could do.

It felt like they'd been walking for ages. Every moment spent blindly walking forwards with no idea of where they could possibly _be_ was an eternity, trapped in the tiny bubble consisting of just him and Matt. He was afraid to even entertain the existence of anything else, in case he had to deal with all _that_ again. He had only the faith that Matt knew where he was going; Foggy was completely lost. How many blocks had they been walking? How many corners had they turned? How many turns did you even need to take to get to the office from Matt's?

“You good?” said the voice from the only focal point in his world.

“Good is debatable. Better than before, though, sure. I have no idea where we are; my mental map gave up a few steps out your door. I'm not cut out for this blind thing.”

“Yeah, well, if it helps, for as well as I know Hell's Kitchen, I don't recognise a thing,” Matt laughed, and Foggy's grip instinctively tightened on Matt's arm at the thought that they might be _actually_ _lost_ , “But I know where I'm going. Don't worry.”

Foggy let out a breath and allowed his hands to relax. He hadn't realised he'd been gripping Matt's arm with such intensity the entire time.

“Sorry about your arm's circulation. Didn't realise I was hanging on like I'm on the world's slowest, least fun roller coaster.”

“Don't worry about it. Didn't want to mention it. You've got enough to worry about.”

“Yeah...” he trailed off, then remembered what he'd actually _heard_ , “Yeah, like the whole- eavesdropping on every conversation at once? What the _fuck_ , Matt?” he hissed into his ear, “Not, I gotta clarify, that I'm saying you listen to people on the street, it's more, that you _can_?”

“Sort of. Kinda hard on a busy street, difficult to focus on one person sometimes. You get the hang of it.”

“That's not really what I-- wait, you're telling me you've _practiced_ listening to strangers on the street?”

“Not-- not strangers. Just people I need to follow. Kind of hard to do that any other way. I'd really rather not have to do it, I think you've had enough first hand experience to know how hard it is to get a reading on anything out here in the middle of the day.”

“Yeah, I'll say, I couldn't even get a reading on my own thoughts,” replied Foggy, “Do you have to deal with this all the time, or do I just suck at hearing good?”

“Mmm,” hummed Matt, “Sort of. I'd say I'm better at knowing what to concentrate on, but it's impossible to focus on anything remotely far away without catching a lot of it in between. I prefer do more or less what you're doing now, if I'm honest. Less headaches.”

“Huh,” said Foggy, chewing his lip a little in thought, “So when you let me lead you around, it's not... entirely for show? Cus, I thought I was helping you out, y'know, as any friend would, the entire time, but when I learned about your-- your abilities or whatever, I thought you'd just been... stowing your pride for an _act_ or something. Let me think I was being supportive when really you were laughing on the inside. When you kept taking my arm anyway I was, like, do I ask? Is this out of habit, or does it actually help? I dunno. I feel stupid now I'm here and I'm faced with the reality I knew from the start that, hey, my best friend's _actually blind_! Who knew, right? Is that stupid, or what?”

Matt stopped walking, the hand that Foggy wasn't grasping clapped him on the shoulder.

“It's not stupid, Foggy,” his voice as level as ever; if he was at all upset over what Foggy had said, he wasn't showing it, “I'm sorry I made you think I was making a joke of your hospitality. I don't need you to walk down the street because I've been at the whole “blind and walking down the street” thing a long time, but honestly, it helps. It's nice to know I can just walk with you and not have to think about it, because I trust you not to run me into any cars. Anyway,” the hand clapped him on the shoulder again, “We're here.”

* * *

Getting Foggy into their office was mercifully much easier than getting him out of Matt's apartment, and they managed to get to the door without any incident. Matt entered first, and lead Foggy inside, where he decided to break off and glue himself to the first wall he got his hands on.

“Dry land,” he breathed, “How I've missed you.”

“Hey, Karen,” said Matt, nodding in her direction.

She was perched on her desk, already putting down the phone she was sifting though. A young man stood next to her, growing visibly more nervous as he took in the sight of the pair.

“Oh, hey, also, Karen, I forgot you were here. I assume you _are_ here and Matt's not just playing a cruel joke on me.”

“Hey Foggy,” she said, hopping off the desk and walking towards them, “You want a chair? You look like you're about to keel right over.”

“I'm good,” he answered, nails digging into the wall, “Just need. A minute.”

She smiled politely, though Matt could swear he saw some pity in it. She turned to him, “So. Uh. This is James. James White. You met him already, but, I'm not sure if you'd, uh, recognise him.”

She turned and gestured to the man standing behind her, beckoning him forwards. He somehow looked more like he was going to collapse at any moment than Foggy, but managed a weak smile in Matt's direction anyhow.

“He says that swapping you was an accident. He also says he can fix it by taking another photo, printing it, and doing... whatever it is to it. Then he says he'll go away and you never have to see him again, and, after remembering that we are a law office, begged us not to sue. Which I assured him we're not going to. We're not going to, right?”

“Nah,” said Matt, “I mean, I won't, but Foggy might be considering it, given the trauma the past twenty minutes have put him though.”

“Bite me.”

White somehow managed to look _more_ afraid at Matt's statement. Feeling pity, he added, “That was a joke. Sorry.”

“Oh,” he sighed, and smiled, holding up a hand, “Please don't sue me. James White. Though you know that. Uh. I'm really sorry.”

Matt ignored the hand for a second, before remembering that he was _meant_ to be seeing it, and took it, “Matt Murdock,” he said, “By way of Foggy Nelson,” he gestured behind him, “We understand that if this was just an accident, and you want to fix it, we'd be more than happy to do whatever you need to get it sorted out.”

“Th-thanks,” he said, letting go of Matt's hand, “Really, I, all I need is another good photo of you two. That's all you have to do. That, and let me use your printer, but we already set up my camera to work with one of your computers while we waited, so, really, I should be out of your hair quick.”

“That's it?” he questioned, looking towards Karen.

“Well, he said it needs to be a-- a _good_ one. You gotta. Uhm. Show character. Which I imagine might be hard given the uh...” she trailed off, her hands kneading the air, “Difficulties.”

“Yeah,” added White, “If it's super staged it might not work. Which is annoying, sorry. But you guys can talk about what you wanna do for a bit if you want. Come up with, I dunno... a way I could take a picture of you here where it'd be natural? You work here, right? There's got to be something. Could just do some work and I could... snap something?”

“Right,” said Matt, “Though most of what we do here is churning through documents. Which I'm sure I could manage to do, slowly, but Foggy's Braille is pretty... rough.”

“Brai--” began White, his eyes flicking from Matt, to the faraway Foggy, then back, “Oh, _oh_. Oh, sorry, oh no, I forgot one of you was blind. That. Oh no, I'm sorry I did that to you guys. Both ways, that's really... that's gotta suck. Oh no, I feel terrib--”

“It's fine,” said Matt, patting his arm, “Really, it's fine. Please don't beat yourself up about this any more, we're gonna fix it, and it'll be done. And that's that. Now,” he turned, walking over to Foggy and taking his arm, “Can you excuse us for a moment? We're just going to consider our photography options.”

He steered Foggy into his own office swiftly, closing the door behind them. He wasn't sure what he'd dragged Foggy over for, what he really needed to talk to him about in private for, when all they needed to do was quickly snap some pictures.

“What're we doing here?” said Foggy, feeling for, then bracing on, one of the visitor chairs.

“I. I don't know. Thought maybe it was worth discussing what to do about... this.”

“What? Getting a picture taken? We did it once, we can do it again, easy, just stand in front of the camera... and... I dunno. Do whatever it is you do.”

“Yeah, but,” he sighed, unsure of how to put his feelings into words, “It's. I don't know! It's weird – the first time I just let it happen because we were already there, but...”

“Wait,” Foggy cut in, “Are you... _embarrassed?_ Are you _photo shy?_ How can you be photo shy? There's pictures of you in the papers every other week, masked or otherwise, so-- wait, is it because you have to _see_ this one? Is that it?”

Matt tried to come up with some kind of response, but he just let his mouth gape silently for a few moments. He was going to come up with an argument, a retort, but nothing came.

“Oh my God Matty,” Foggy breathed, when Matt failed to respond, “You _are._ This is incredible. I mean, okay, no, it sucks, because we really need a picture taken, like, pronto, but... You? You're not afraid of getting shot at by _guns,_ but cameras? Terrifying.”

“C'mon Foggy, it's not that I'm afraid of getting my photo taken, I just... Look, it's not that. I just don't know what I'm meant to do,” he admitted.

“Do what you always do? Just stand there and smile? Is it so hard?”

“I... yeah. I don't know why it's bothering me so much, Fogs. Maybe you were right, maybe I just don't want to have to look at it. I suppose I still don't have to, but...” he trailed off.

It wasn't that he didn't want to look at himself. He'd been managing it all day, and he'd coped with looking at the others. Thinking of the other photos he'd seen today, other than the _important_ one, there had been the one on Foggy's desk, and the one on his phone. He was used to just letting photos _happen_ to him; this one felt like too much of an _event_ , and he was letting it get to him. Something like that.

“Hey Foggy?” he said, grateful that Foggy had let him mull it over for a few moments, “You know that picture on your phone? When was that taken?”

“Picture on my... you mean my lock screen photo? You don't remember that? It was the day we got the office! I took it like, as soon as we got inside, cus I was so excited we were finally making the dream happen.”

“Oh, right,” he said, vaguely remembering, “I haven't seen it since, so, I kinda... forgot. It was nice, though. I saw it when I was trying to get into your phone to call you this morning.”

“Mm. Yeah. Got my good side. Why are you bringing this up? You want us to.. to take a _selfie_ for this?”

Matt considered it for a moment. In all honesty, he was just curious about the origins of the picture, but...

“You think that would work?”

“The hell should I know? If it makes you stop being a baby about posing in front of Karen, or whatever you've got going on, then, sure, why not. We could take one right here, right now, if that's what it takes.”

Matt fished Foggy's phone out of his pocket and stared at it. He began to hand it over to him, then caught himself, and turned on the screen himself.

“Guess it's better than nothing. How do I get it to take pictures?”

“Uh. Unlock it, I guess you figured out how to do that. I'm not gonna ask how. “Camera” should be on the first screen that opens.”

“Got it.”

“Right. Then just make sure it's on selfie cam. If it's not tap the button on the top right, then just... actually, give it here. I'll take it.”

Matt handed Foggy the phone, and took his place next to him. Foggy held the device at arms length, thumb poised over a button on the phone's side.

“We lined up?”

“Point it a little left. Then you're good.”

“Alright. Close your eyes. And take this.”

Matt was happy to oblige as the cane was pressed into his hands.

“You dunno what to do with your hands if you're not holding that thing, trust me, I can tell. Now. This is our primer for the photo, you ready? Don't say anything. Just point your face in the direction of the phone, and listen to me.

“This has been, without a doubt, the strangest day of my life so far. And God, I really didn't think it was going to get any stranger than finding you bleeding out, half dead, wearing a known criminal's clothes. And while, admittedly, that incident _did_ mess up our friendship, I'm glad we figured it out. Well, almost figured it out, anyway. Let's not get into _that_ here, I'm setting up a mood.

“What I'm _trying_ to say is, Matthew Murdock, this day has been a trip through hell, but, god if I'm not glad it's you I'm doing this with and not _literally_ anyone else. Swapping with someone who could see? Screw that, if I'm suffering, I'm suffering with you. And man alive do I suffer when I'm with you, buddy,” he paused a moment, for a final breath, “Despite everything, you're still my best friend, and as much as it pains me to say it, I wouldn't trade anyone for ya.”

There was another, slightly longer pause.

“Ready for the photo?”

“Y... yeah?” said Matt, unsure if he was allowed to speak. Unsure if he wanted to, after all that.

“Well, too bad, cus I took like _five_ while I was speaking. Dunno what that guy wants, but, if the look on our dumb faces while I spill my heart everywhere isn't genuine enough, I don't know what to tell him.”

* * *

They had given the phone to Karen, and told her to pick the best one. Foggy, being unable to see them, and Matt, being unwilling. She'd accepted the burden without too much questioning, and had set to work getting the phone to play with her computer, so the image could be printed. They were waiting, still in Matt's office, for the final verdict.

“Did you mean all that?” said Matt, perching on the edge of his desk.

“What, about you being my best friend? Unfortunately.” he patted around the edge of the chair he was next to, sitting himself down slowly, “Mostly I was just trying to think of something to say that'd make you forget what was happening. And told you off a bit in the middle so you'd know it was real.”

Matt smiled, “We've done enough talking about our feelings today for this whole year, don't you think?”

“Hah. Yeah. Let's go back to secrets, lies and working behind each other's backs. _That's_ conducive to a healthy friendship,” he settled in his seat a little, “But you _do_ have to tell Karen. I'm holding you to it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I will. I will. Honest. Just. Once things have died down a little.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

The door opened slowly. Karen, holding a piece of paper in her hands, waving it around, “Guys! It.. it worked, it's really incredible, actually. He just kinda put his hands on it for a sec and... bam! Swapped placed on the paper. Here, look!”

She handed the paper over to Matt excitedly, who took it. Foggy stood, shuffling over to Matt, as if to huddle around and look at it with him.

“How's it look?”

It really didn't look like anything special. As far as he was any judge, anyway. It was just a slightly blurry, badly lit picture of two guys smiling.

“I'm no expert but I think it's-- Foggy?” He wasn't standing next to him. A moment later, a thud.

“Oh my god, Foggy!” exclaimed Karen, rushing over.

Foggy was lying on the floor, apparently, out cold.

“If he's given me a concussion, I'm gonna-- woah. Dizzy,” his vision blurred as his head lulled, picture in his hands going in and out of focus as his legs fought not to buckle.

Despite his efforts, he didn't manage to sit himself down on the floor before the dizziness took over, falling into what he assumed must've been Karen, as he blacked out.

* * *

Head hurts. What was it this time? Did someone clock him? Can't remember.

Matt gave himself a few more moments of lying on – yes, the floor – to piece his memories together. It came rushing back after a few moments. Foggy! Of course. The swap. Last thing he remembered was falling over, but what lead up to that was still fuzzy. _Head_ hurts.

He flitted his eyes open to get his bearings, the lessons of the past few hours finally sticking. He bolted upright, head darting around the room uselessly. He couldn't see anything – _Foggy_ couldn't see anything – what _happened_ before he'd passed out? Did he hit his head on the way down?

“Oh my God, Matt, woah, calm down, you look like you're freaking out,” said Karen's voice, followed by some footsteps. A hand was on his back.

“Karen?” he said, reaching out to find her arm, “What happened? Did I hit my head? I-I can't see anything.”

She didn't speak for a few seconds, “Uh, Matt...” she said softly.

The penny dropped.

“Oh,” he sighed, “It. It fixed didn't it. Sorry, I... forgot. That's what was happening. I thought...”

“Oh--!” said Karen, and Matt felt a hand go to her mouth, “You thought Foggy-- oh, my God. No, it's fine. You got a bump on your head, but, really minor, I had a look. You're fine. I mean. Uh. You're still blind, but, that shouldn't be a surprise, right?”

“No,” he smiled, “Thanks Karen.”

Her hand rubbed his back gently, “No problem. You want some water? Foggy's still out, but, he didn't get a bump on the head like you did, so he'll be alright. White already left, by the way. He seemed so... embarrassed about the whole ordeal, he basically ran out the door. Hope you didn't want that selfie signed or anything,” she laughed, "Not that he took it, but, y'know, for the... magic he did on it?"

“Selfie...?” came a low grumble from next to him, “Oh _jeez_ , what happened, feel like I-- oh my God, my peepers. They work! It's a Christmas miracle!”

“Morning Foggy,” said Matt, as Foggy embraced him in a one armed hug, “You sleep good?”

“Absolutely not, but I couldn't be happier to be myself again.”

“I'll say,” said Matt, pushing him off, “You stink, did you not shower this morning or something?”

“Hah. Don't remember. Guess I wasn't really myself,” he said, standing, “Hey, where's that picture?”

“It's on my desk,” said Karen, walking over, “Got some water, Matt. You want help up?”

“Oh. Sure, thanks Karen,” he said, holding an arm up, which Karen took, and heaved him to his feet. She pressed the mug of water into his hands, and walked back towards the kitchen area. He wasn't sure if she actually had something to do over there, or if she just wanted to give them a moment. Either way, they would have it. He turned, and walked over to Foggy.

“Pretty good. Not bad for all my hard work, but not incredible, for all the ceremony,” he said, “Didja get a good look at it?”

“Yeah,” he said, clapping Foggy on the back with his free hand, “Last thing I saw before I passed out. The last thing I saw before I lost my sight originally was my dad, which is a little more poetic... but... I knew I was never gonna forget my dad's face because of it. And, now, if I never have to forget yours, too, well...” he smiled. What little he could sense of Foggy's face seemed to be smiling back at him, “Guess I can live with it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be like, a whole nother chapter ontop of this, but, I reached a point writing this and decided it was done. Had an entire other section planned, but, didn't really fit in the end. There's more I could've written, and, really, this chapter could probably use some more editing but... I'm done!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading all the way to the end of this, my experimental first fic and twenty thousand word accident. I'd love to hear what you thought, being a brave soul who managed to get this far. I went into this with absolutely zero plan and worked with what I'd handed myself off the cuff in ch1. Terrifying. I didn't expect this to breach 10k, never mind 20. Now, it feels like a blessing I managed to stop before 30.
> 
> Dunno if I'm writing anything else after this, but... guess time will tell!


End file.
